“We haven’t been able to locate her yet. I’m sorry, Yazmina.”
“You were looking?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure.”
“We are looking but haven’t found her yet. She could still be at home. We just don’t know.”
She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. “The men who took me promised to come back for her before the snows melted. And Nowruz is almost here.” For Persians, Nowruz was the first day of spring, the day when Afghans removed their woodstoves until the following autumn. For Yazmina, it was the day the roads would open, whether there was snow or not.
“We are still working on it, I promise,” Jack said, trying to reassure her.
“They may have taken her already,” she continued, turning away. Then she said, “Everything is two things. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Jack? I am happy with my Najama, and I mourn my Layla.”
“I know,” he answered. “Life is like that.” He thought for a moment of the end of his marriage and the beginning of his life with Sunny. But then he looked at Yazmina and realized he had to do something more to help her. He sure didn’t want to take on something as dangerous as this himself. Shit, he thought, there’s got to be someone else. Anyone else.
“And Layla is only twelve,” Yazmina said.
“I’ll keep trying. But I can’t promise anything,” Jack said. He had a couple of contacts up there, paid shooters, searching for her uncle’s house, somewhere in a mountainous crevice, or watching out for a girl, some brown-haired girl, in the company of men, but it was like asking someone to find a tourist in Times Square. There were hundreds of lone houses in that vicinity and even more Laylas all through Afghanistan. Young girls used as payola. He knew to go in and get Yazmina’s sister would mean to hire at least four, maybe five more guys (expensive, but hey, what’s money for, anyway?), to pay triple to some cowboy with a helicopter to fly them in (that wouldn’t be hard), and then find Layla (which mountain, which hillside with goats, which little house with a fence and green gate, among the hundreds up there?), and then take her with the warlord and his fucking henchmen on their trail all the way back to Kabul, where they’d turn up one night with Uzis and a knife to cut his throat, unless Jack killed them first. The only thing Jack could do to prevent that would be to give the uncle three times the money he owed on his debt. Only then would the bad guys be happy.
“Tashakur, thank you,” Yazmina said, lowering her head. “I would be in your debt.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do. May Allah hear your prayers.”
He took a swig of Coke and heard footsteps from the courtyard. He turned and saw Tommy walking in with Sunny, his arm around her waist. They were laughing, looking like damn lovebirds.
“Jack!” Sunny said, with a stunning smile. “You’re—”
But he was already up, heading to the front door. On his way out he turned to Yazmina and said, “I’ll find your Layla. Don’t you worry.”
He heard Sunny’s voice behind him, heard her footsteps, but he refused to look at her. He waved good-bye to Ahmet and Poppy, and made it out to the street and onto his motorbike before she could reach him. It’s a good thing, he was thinking, as he pulled away with a roar of the engine. He was so angry, so outside of his normal parameters of emotion, he didn’t know what he would’ve done or said if she’d caught up with him.
Sunny ran into the road, yelling for Jack as his motorbike sped off. She was breathing heavily when she got back into the coffeehouse, where Yazmina was explaining everything to Tommy.
Tommy looked up at Sunny and said, “It’s very dangerous, what Jack’s going to do. More than any hostage negotiation. Money owed to a drug lord is money owed. And if a girl’s been used as payment, there’s only one way to get her back. And that’s something you don’t want to know about.”
“Tommy,” Sunny said, sitting down next to him. “I’ve never asked you for anything. But you have to do this for me. You have to help him. Don’t let him go up to Nuristan alone. Not like this, not without …” Her eyes filled with tears. If she had to get on her hands and knees she would. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Jack was capable, but that he’d flung himself into a suicide mission because he’d read her smile all wrong.
After Jack didn’t return her dozens of calls, Sunny went to the supply room, took out the bucket of old leftover paint used for inside the coffeehouse, brought it to the front courtyard, looked at her dirty wall, which was a complete mess, after stupid attempt on top of stupid attempt, opened the can, and threw the paint on the mural. Again and again.
When Bashir Hadi saw what she was doing, he ran out. “Stop, please, Miss Sunny! Stop!”
But she ignored him. Only when the can was empty did she stop. The paint was dripping down the wall, and she put her two hands right into it and began to move the paint, like a child at nursery school, to spread the paint everywhere, her tears coming, then, and she turned to him, wiped the hair that had fallen into her face with her upper arm, and said, “Help me.”
He went back into the café, silently. And she watched him, the backs of her hands on her hips. She’d already gotten paint on her jeans, so a little more wasn’t going to hurt.
He returned with two rollers, handed Sunny one, and with the other began to spread the wet paint over the charcoal mistakes. Sunny wasn’t satisfied until every inch was covered.
When it was finished, Bashir Hadi asked her, “Why? It could’ve been a beautiful thing.”
“It was a stupid idea. A jungle in Kabul?”
“Are you joking with me? It’s a jungle out there! A whole lot of monkeys in Kabul!”
Sunny laughed a little through her tears but turned to Bashir Hadi and said, “You tell me, Bashir Hadi, what is all this?” She flailed her arms. “It’s not fair. I’m sick of it. And now Jack’s heart is broken. How is that fair? How is that right? There should be some correlation between being good and having a good life.”
“Life isn’t like that. Is that why you cry, Miss Sunny?”
“Why do I cry? Why, you ask?” she yelled, flinging her arms wide and feeling completely out of control, as all her anger and sadness and frustration spilled out. “Life here is horrible. It’s wonderful. It’s dangerous. It’s home. I hate it. My loved ones are here. My family. And yet, it’s probably time to go. I love Jack. I hate him.”
“But your house has not burned down,” Bashir Hadi replied. He turned around to face the wall and said, with a lowered voice, “I am sorry, Miss Sunny, I apologize, it’s just—”
“What do you mean, ‘burned down’? What is it, Bashir Hadi?” She softened her voice. “Say what’s on your mind.”
“All I mean to say is that your house, it stands. Look at this. Look at what you have.” He gestured to the coffeehouse. “In Afghanistan, you cry when your house burns down with everything and everyone in it.”
“So you think because you have lived through such terrible troubles that you get to determine when I can cry? Your life, Bashir Hadi, hasn’t been so bad either.”
“Do you know one thing about me?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Do you? Tell me.” He crossed his arms, waiting.
“I know your lovely wife, Sharifa, and your two children, who are beautiful and good students and—”
“Do you know my son has trouble learning to read? That he sees a special doctor and much of my salary goes to that? Do you know that my wife’s mother is ill and will probably die before Ramadan?”
Sunny shook her head and said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I guess I thought if anything was wrong, you’d tell me.”
“Am I crying because I have difficult things happening to my family? They are alive. And so I am celebrating.” He kicked a stone into the wall. “The only thing that makes the Afghan cry is war and hunger and losing an arm in a blast, and … people who think only about themselves. I am sorry, Miss Sunny, to talk to you this way. But there is a wise old Western saying that sums it all up: Shit happ
ens. Excuse me, you are the boss, after all, but you Americans, I hear you talk in the coffeehouse every day and every night, revealing your personal problems. You expect so much, you feel that you deserve good things to come your way, and yet you understand so little. Afghanistan is hard and not only hard for you foreigners. You can leave and get a job and see a doctor and go to college and buy whatever you want. We are trapped here always. You whine and moan over little things, and we’re the ones who have to clean up after you.”
She was shocked at the depth of his feeling. “I’m sorry, Bashir Hadi. I didn’t realize. I’m such an idiot. I hadn’t wanted to intrude in your life. You are a very private man, and I have much respect for you.”
“None of that matters. What I’m talking about is that Jack will come back. Alive and well. But don’t you see? Your tears aren’t for a philosophical principle of who is deserving or what is just, but because of your own heart.”
“But Jack thought … and it wasn’t what he thought.”
“It doesn’t matter what he thought. He’ll be back. What would he do without … his crispy potatoes every morning?”
He smiled, and Sunny laughed again, then moved as close as she could to him while still keeping an appropriate physical distance. “You are my friend. And I care about you. Maybe you need to get a little more American in you and talk more about things you think about. The more you say, the more I know. Now tell me more about your son. Does he see a doctor at the German clinic?”
Sunny sat in one of the patio chairs and pulled one out for Bashir Hadi. Eventually he sat, but only after he said, “You will paint a mural on the wall, right? We can’t have it looking like this. Easter will be here soon, and we had a pact: The wall will be finished by Easter.”
Ahmet had arranged in advance for Khalid to work as chokidor at the coffeehouse for the morning. He said his morning prayers on the small rug in his room and drove Sunny’s car to the road across the river from the Mondai-e to the tailor’s shop behind the red and white Coca-Cola umbrella. The letter from Rashif to his mother felt as heavy as a stone in his pants pocket and weighed on him with its complete repudiation of acceptable behavior. The knife he carried weighed even more.
When he got there, he went inside, closing the thin door behind him. Rashif was wearing reading glasses and was bent over a small sewing table with a lone lightbulb hanging over it. Surrounding him were vests and pants, jackets and dresses, hanging above from wire hangers. The whirr of the sewing machine prevented him from hearing the door open and close, and by the time he looked up, Ahmet was looming over him.
“Salaam alaikum,” said Rashif kindly, as he stood. “You surprised me.” He removed his glasses, which hung on a black cord around his neck.
“Wa alaikum as-salaam,” replied Ahmet, politely, but his hands were clenched, perspiring.
“And how may I help you?” asked Rashif. “You have something to be altered?”
“I have this.” He put his hand into his pocket, took out the letter, and hammered it onto the table with his fist.
“My letter,” Rashif said calmly. “Where did you find that? Wait—I know you,” he said, smiling. “Sometimes when I sew, it takes my eyes some time to refocus. You are Ahmet. I am so pleased to see you.” And he started to hug him, but Ahmet pulled away with such a violent force that he pushed Rashif into the table, almost toppling it over.
“You have shamed my family, sir.”
Rashif’s shoulders sank and he shook his head. “Young man, how can my letter shame you?”
“You have made my mother unclean! I am not the son of a whore.” He moved his vest aside to show the knife hanging from his belt.
“You come to kill? Why? Where is it written that such a letter is wrong? There is no husband here. There is no wife. Yes, they’d be dishonored if there were, because adultery is forbidden. But here both husband and wife are long dead. How can a simple letter between a widow and widower bring shame?”
“It is not one letter. It is years of letters! It is the words of a husband to a wife.”
“Did you read them, Ahmet? Now, that would be wrong.”
“I read only one or two,” Ahmet lied. “To protect our family. This is my mother you have destroyed. My family!” He laughed. “And here is the irony: My mother cannot even read.”
Rashif sat. “I know she does not. I think I’ve known for some time but only recently have I known for sure. But that is exactly what love is. To write, unread. To travel far each week to receive that which is unattainable. Muhammad knew the truth about love. It doesn’t come often. And there is no reason when it comes to love—pretty or not, young or old—so go figure.”
“Do not talk to me of love!” Ahmet bellowed. But he thought of Yazmina and how his feelings for her could not be explained. Then he remembered his duty. “This isn’t a girl. It’s my mother. An old woman!”
“And I am an old man.”
“Who has no respect for the traditions. Who has a history of laughing at tradition and aligning yourself with the West. You bring shame into our house. I have come for one reason only,” Ahmet said, now taking out his knife, clenching it in his hand.
“Killing me for no reason will only bring more shame. The West, you say?” He stood, his brow furrowed, his temper clearly rising. “Helping our own countrymen to find their lives again when they return to Motherland Afghanistan? That is a bad thing? Under whose eyes? Allah’s? Show me in the Koran where it speaks so! And your mother? It is known that Muhammad married women whose husbands had died!” He stopped, drew in a deep breath, and sat once more.
“Then there is only one other thing to do,” Ahmet said, his knife pointed at Rashif. “You will marry her.”
Rashif smiled at first, and then stopped. He lowered his head respectfully and said, “I know I must pay for my transgressions. I will make restitution. I will marry Halajan, your mother.”
“And you will pray to Allah for forgiveness.”
“Yes, I will pray.”
Ahmet felt lightheaded, as if the rage and self-righteousness that had lifted from his body made him like a feather in the wind. He put the knife back in its sheath and leaned against the wall.
“Will you sit?” Rashif asked. “We can discuss the details of the marriage agreement. I will pour us some tea.”
Ahmet sat and Rashif went to his back room, where he had a sink and a hot plate, and prepared the chai.
Carrying a small tray with a teapot and two cups, Rashif said, “You are a good son, Ahmet, to protect your mother so. But what about your own happiness?”
“Me? I eat, I pray. I am happy.”
“But what about a wife? Will you marry one day?”
Ahmet sipped from his cup and then put it down with a sigh. It was a long time before he spoke. “There is one,” he confessed. It was odd how he could say such things to Rashif, as if he was already family. “She has eyes like the forest in springtime.”
Rashif nodded. “Remember that life is short and full of surprises. If you wait too long, opportunities fade like the setting sun.”
“She still mourns her dead husband.”
“Here is something I’ve learned, if I may offer it to you. What is in our hearts is never a one-way street. Only as children when we’re too young to understand the signs do we love unrequitedly. If you love, it’s because you feel its power reflected back on you.”
“She has a baby who she says is her dead husband’s. She has a baby!” he yelled, slamming a fist onto the table.
“That only proves she was a good, loving wife. And that she is a loving mother.”
“If only there was no baby,” Ahmet said, barely hearing what Rashif was saying.
“You know what Muhammad would say. She deserves to be loved. Baby or not.”
Ahmet sipped his tea, feeling very uneasy about more mentions of love. Men he knew would never talk this way. Maybe it was Rashif’s age, or his life experience, but there was something about him that made it almost acceptable to di
scuss such things aloud.
“The baby is a fact. She must be accepted,” said Rashif.
“That might prove impossible,” Ahmet said stiffly.
“I know you would never hurt the baby.”
“Of course not,” said Ahmet dismissively.
“Or try to give it away.”
Ahmet was unable to respond to this.
So Rashif said, “Sometimes another power can take control of a man’s will and darken him with terrible thoughts that lead to terrible deeds.”
“What do you mean by that? That I do not have full control over my deeds?”
“No, only that sometimes a man needs all the help he can get in order to keep him righteous in the eyes of God.”
The two men sat silent for a while. Ahmet looked up at Rashif and saw concern etched on his face.
Finally Rashif spoke. “A thought occurs to me. Love makes all things possible. So, should you ever need someone to act as your father’s proxy, since he is no longer alive, to ask a woman of your mother’s choosing to marry you, I could be that man.”
Ahmet put the notion, with Rashif’s letter, in his pocket for safekeeping. He repeated, “If there was no baby … But when you speak of this to my mother—and I know you will—reassure her that I would never hurt the baby.”
When he got back to the coffeehouse, Sunny was working at the counter, Bashir Hadi was in the kitchen, and Yazmina was sweeping the floors, the baby attached to her chest with the long scarf.
“Hello, Yazmina,” he said softly, standing several arm lengths away.
“Ahmet, good day,” she answered, without looking directly at him. The baby cooed. Yazmina leaned her broom against the wall and moved aside the fabric of her sling to see her baby’s face. She smiled.
Ahmet actually liked the baby. He liked her smell, the little gurgles she made, but most of all he liked her reflection in Yazmina’s eyes. Never had a baby been so loved, he was certain of that. He only wished her eyes would look at him with a portion of that love.
And then Yazmina looked up at him. She smiled, her eyes glistening like stones in a river. He smiled back and fought the desire that surged through him to take her in his arms and hold her that way forever.
A Cup of Friendship Page 25