“Wait a minute,” said Sunny. “Okay for a little makeup and maybe blow out my hair. But that’s it.”
“Yes, of course, come,” said the first woman, who led her into a back room with sinks, where Yazmina and Halajan were getting up and where Sunny was, apparently, sitting down.
“This is wonderful, Miss Sunny. Thank you so much!” said Yazmina, her hair tied up in a towel on her head. “Thank you again and again!” And she was led out.
Five hours later, Sunny looked at herself in the mirror and damn if her forehead wasn’t lined with a row of rhinestones that spanned from one side to the other. Her hair was even thicker than usual because they’d added a fall that only resembled her real hair’s color and texture. It was in curls down her back with tendrils at the side. Her makeup was piled on bright and thick, her cheeks pink, her eyelids purple, her mouth a deep red, and her fake eyelashes so heavy she had trouble keeping them open. She looked like a drag queen, she thought. And her brows hurt like hell from the threading, where they yanked out a few hairs at a time using a thread and a fast, jerky motion.
“Beautiful!” they all agreed.
“Miss Sunny,” Yazmina said with a little laugh, “you certainly don’t look like yourself.”
“You’ve become a white dove!” Halajan teased.
Sunny looked in the mirror and thought, I wish Jack was here for this. But then I’d never be able to live this down.
Prayers are sometimes answered when and how they are least expected.
When the women were ready to leave the salon, dressed in their wedding clothes, Yazmina was covered with a veil so that no one could see her face. Ahmet met them inside and led Yazmina outside, where the wedding car was waiting for them. Sunny laughed so hard, she thought she’d glued her eyelashes together. It was her car, but it had been decorated with plastic flowers and ribbons. It was so gaudy and ridiculous, it was almost beautiful. She knew it was Bashir Hadi’s work, for he’d bought the ribbon when they were shopping together, saying it was for a school project for his kids.
A video photographer was filming the whole scene, including Sunny in her embarrassing makeup. But she figured, what the hell, it wasn’t her day. It was Yazmina’s and she’d be a willing participant.
They got into the car. Sunny sat with Yazmina and Halajan in the back. A driver was at the wheel and Ahmet climbed in front next to him. As the car made its way to the coffeehouse, the driver kept looking at her from his rearview mirror. Sunny couldn’t really see him because of her heavy lids and the angle.
But then he said, “So you’re a female impersonating a female impersonator?”
It was Jack.
“I hate you!” she screamed with a smile so wide she was afraid she’d messed up her makeup.
His response, which he mouthed very clearly into the rearview mirror, was: “I hate you, too.”
But she wouldn’t let herself cry because it would ruin her makeup, and more importantly, this was Yazmina’s day.
“Mr. Jack,” Yazmina said, leaning forward, holding on to the front seat. “Layla, did you find her? Is she here?”
Sunny searched for his eyes in the rearview mirror but couldn’t see them. He only said in Dari, “I’ll explain everything, Yazmina, when we get back.”
Yazmina slumped back in her seat. Sunny took her hand and held it for the entire ride.
When they arrived at the coffeehouse they thought they’d come to a palace. A row of women on the right and a row of men on the left greeted them at the gate, as a friend of Ahmet’s held the Koran over the bride’s and groom’s heads.
But before the wedding party could begin, the religious ceremony was to take place in Halajan’s house. Sunny hung back to say to Jack, “You’re here.”
“I am,” he said.
“You clean up well,” Sunny whispered as they climbed the stairs. Jack looked so handsome in his suit. “No Layla?”
But before he had time to answer, they heard a voice behind them. “Yazmina! Yazmina!” And there was Layla running to her sister from the coffeehouse.
Yazmina ran down the stairs. When she reached Layla, she lifted her veil and folded it back over her head. Then the two young women wrapped their arms around each other and held firmly that way for a long time, both girls crying. Yazmina put both hands on Layla’s face and kissed one cheek and then the other. She had the same sun-kissed complexion, waist-long braid, and magnificent green eyes of her sister. And then she kissed her again and again. Until Layla laughed and said, “Stop, you’ll ruin your makeup.”
“But you’re as tall as a tree!”
“You’ve been gone a long time.” She looked down. “I thought you were dead. I’ve spent all these months sad because of losing you, praying you were well and that I’d find you again.”
“But what about you?”
“Uncle tried his hardest to keep me with him, but the men—”
Yazmina lifted her face by her chin. “Never mind that. You’re here with me now and you will have your life back.”
“I thought my life was over,” Layla cried. “But Mr. Jack … I don’t know what he did, but he got me just in time.”
Sunny squeezed Jack’s hand.
Yazmina let go of Layla for a minute to turn to Jack and say, “This is the best gift I could ever receive on my wedding day. Thank you.” She bowed her head, the tears coming again. “May Allah bless you, Mr. Jack. Thank you for bringing my Layla home to me.”
“Don’t cry!” said Layla. “Your kohl will run down your cheeks.”
Jack nodded to let her know he accepted her blessing. Then he turned to Sunny and was about to say something when she interrupted.
“What about Tommy?” she whispered. “Did he come back with you?” But before he could answer, she added, “Not that I care, it’s just—”
“It’s okay. He explained it all to me. And he’s fine. Good thing he came along, too. He’s fearless, that guy. But he won’t be back. He took another job. I don’t get it. If I had to choose between you and all the money in the—”
“And the adventure—”
“You are an adventure,” he whispered.
Only the family—which in this case extended to close friends—attended the religious ceremony, the khutba nikah, the marriage speech and the signing of the contract. A mullah from Ahmet’s mosque had come to officiate.
Rashif stood by Ahmet’s side, like the father he was to become. Rashif hugged him, gave him the three cheek kisses, and whispered into his ear, “I am as proud of you today as if you were from my own blood.”
Ahmet looked at the older man with gratitude. Rashif was giving him away today, and it was he, in his little tailor shop, who first spoke the words to Ahmet that brought him to this glorious day in the first place.
The wedding contract specified nothing about the number of goats or money or anything material, for Yazmina had no parent or guardian. Sunny acted on her behalf, and agreed that the words Ahmet was going to say to Yazmina were binding enough.
“I will love and honor you as long as you live,” Ahmet said. “And I will love Najama as my own daughter. Both of you for all the days of life. Your concerns are my own under the light and wisdom of Muhammad.”
Yazmina answered, “And I will love you and honor you all the days of my life, in the light and wisdom of Muhammad.” She said it two more times, as was the tradition.
Their palms were then dipped in henna and held together as a reminder of the ancient times when the bride’s and groom’s palms were cut so that they’d be joined in blood.
By seven, the sun had just dipped behind the hills in the west. The sky was washed with lavender and pink, and the light was soft. It was time for the wedding party to begin. The family and friends walked together down the stairs to the coffeehouse, with the new bride and groom following behind.
A car pulled up to the gate, its horn blaring. Everyone who was waiting to greet the bride and groom at the front door rushed to the gate. There, getting out of a b
ig black SUV, was Candace.
“Sunny!” she yelled.
Sunny and Jack pushed their way to the front of the crowd.
“What’s so important?” asked Sunny. “We’ve got a party to go to—and you do, too!”
“Seriously, you’ve got to see this,” Candace pleaded. She opened the door of the SUV and gestured inside.
Sunny and Jack bent forward to get a look inside.
“Excellent gift,” said Jack with a big laugh.
Then Candace told them the story. Earlier that afternoon while Sunny, Yazmina, and Halajan were at the salon, Candace had called her driver and told him she needed a wedding gift. She said she wanted something traditional and was willing to pay good money for it. Could he pick it up for her on his way over to get her for the wedding? She needed the time to get ready.
He knew just what to get, he told her.
Then, around six-thirty, he picked her up at the boardinghouse.
“And there it was,” Candace said.
“And here it is,” said Jack, reaching in and pulling on a rope. Out came a big, hairy sheep, its neck wrapped in a red ribbon.
“You see?” said Candace. “A living, breathing, hairy as an unshorn sheep, sheep! It shed on my dress. I have hair all over me.” She brushed at herself while balancing on her crutches.
“Thank you very much, Miss Candace,” said Yazmina, with a small bow of her head.
“This was our number one wish,” added Ahmet, “to have our very own sheep. What we will do with it, I have no idea!”
The crowd wailed with laughter and applause.
Bashir Hadi came forward. “I’ll tie it up out back,” he said.
Then they all went inside, first the bride and groom, and then Sunny, who walked slowly with Candace. This woman, Sunny thought, she is something.
The coffeehouse had been transformed. It buzzed with excitement, color, and light: the walls of boldly patterned fabric, hundreds of candles glowing, lanterns ablaze, roses in vases on every table, on the counter, and in hand-blown glass containers that hung by metal chains from the ceiling, their scent rich in the air. Rose petals were strewn on the floor leading from the door, where the bride and groom were ushered in by two people holding the Koran over their heads. They were taken to the two large thronelike chairs at the far end of the room, where they would sit like king and queen during the course of the party.
Bashir Hadi acted as MC and organizer, telling everyone where to go and what to do. As people arrived, he had them line up to greet the bride and groom, women on the right and men on the left. He motioned for the band to start, and traditional Afghan wedding music wafted out onto the street, carried by the rhythmic beat of the tabla.
Ahmet and Yazmina were put under a large, lavishly decorated shawl, where Yazmina would take off the scarf from around her face and Ahmet would look at her fully, and they would see each other for the first time as husband and wife in a mirror that Ahmet held. Layla walked to the throne, carrying the Koran in a basket, and Ahmet took it to read a prayer to his new bride.
Under the shawl, with the diffused light casting a soft glow on her face, Yazmina looked like an angel from God, thought Ahmet. She took off her veil. Her hair was filled with glitter. Ahmet reached out a hand to touch her face but lowered it before he did. She put her hand on his.
He held the mirror, as was the tradition, and saw her face reflected in it. Then he looked straight at her. She was his wife. All his years at study and prayer, all his time spent standing at the gate, protecting his mother and the coffeehouse. Allah had heard his prayers, finally, but only when he opened his mind as wide as his heart did he listen.
“I love you,” he whispered to Yazmina.
“I love you, Ahmet,” she whispered back.
Once out from under the shawl, they walked around the hall as a couple, with a friend of Ahmet’s holding the Koran over their heads, as if they were being blessed by Muhammad himself.
Dancing began, and though it was a mixed wedding, with men and women in one room, men and women did not touch or dance together. It was enough for Ahmet to explain to his friends from the mosque that the mixed wedding was necessary because both he and Yazmina were friends with Sunny, Candace, and Bashir Hadi. And besides, his mother wouldn’t have had it any other way. But he could never begin to explain mixed dancing.
So the men held hands over their heads and the women held hands near their hips and danced without intermingling. But there was no wall separating them, no cloth or sheer curtain.
When the party was over, Candace, Rashif, Halajan, and Bashir Hadi accompanied Yazmina to her new home in Halajan’s house. Bashir Hadi offered to sacrifice the sheep Candace had brought, as was the ancient custom, but everybody protested with a loud, “No, thank you very much!”
At the doorway, Halajan handed Yazmina a hammer and a nail, which Yazmina pounded into the door’s frame. It was said that the bride who did this would stay at her husband’s home forever. Then, the women escorted Yazmina into her new bedroom, kissed her cheeks three times, and held her close and said good night.
Finally, Ahmet and Yazmina were alone together for the very first time.
As they said good night, under the moon on the coffeehouse patio, Halajan said to Rashif, “One thing before you go.”
“What more is there on this glorious night?” Rashif said. “The only night I will be happier is the night you and I are married ourselves.”
But Halajan put her right hand up the sleeve of her left and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Rashif.
He looked into her eyes, disbelieving. Slowly he unfolded the paper, again and then again and once more until it was opened. He looked down at it and then up into Halajan’s face, his eyes filling with tears.
She smiled. “My writing is like a chicken’s scrawl.”
“It is like a work of art,” he said, and he read aloud, pausing here and there when his throat became too full to go on.
My dearest Rashif,
Today my son, Ahmet, and Yazmina have wed. Soon it will be our turn. We won’t need letters then. Funny, because now, finally, I am reading. We begin our life together laughing, as it should be.
Yours,
Halajan
He looked around, saw they were alone, and kissed her then, for the very first time, under the acacia tree.
This was to be their last Wednesday night together in the coffeehouse. They closed for the afternoon and nobody was allowed to enter except Candace, Jack, and Bashir Hadi, Halajan and Rashif, Yazmina and Ahmet, Layla and baby Najama, and, of course, Poppy. Good-byes were going to be said and promises made to stay in touch forever.
Tomorrow it was Sunny’s turn. She was leaving Kabul. She set a long table outside in front of her mural and planned a delicious menu, to be cooked and served by the staff of Rumi, her favorite restaurant in Kabul. She had invited everyone with a letter or email so that they’d understand that even her Afghan friends were expected as her guests, not as employees or servants, to sit at her table and eat her meal, so that she could say good-bye.
She’d given the coffeehouse to Halajan, Ahmet, and Yazmina to own and run with Bashir Hadi as a partner with the family. But Yazmina was going to be very busy working as a designer and dressmaker for Rashif’s shop, which would be the first unisex tailor shop in Kabul—with separate entrances and changing rooms for the men and women, of course.
So the daily job of cleaning would be Layla’s, who was going to live in Ahmet’s old room in Halajan’s house. And Ahmet and Yazmina were taking Sunny’s rooms for their family. Poppy would protect them all.
Candace was staying in Kabul to continue the work she and Isabel had started on behalf of women convicted of “moral crimes.” She regarded the American government’s warnings to evacuate Kabul as premature and unnecessary, and she vowed to stay until her work was done.
And Jack was going back to America to live near his son, who was going to college in Ann Arbor. He had an interview with
an NGO there that needed a security director for its international operations. He could work right out of the Ann Arbor office. He felt strongly that the American presence in Afghanistan was only adding fuel to a volatile fire.
Sunny stood, waiting for her guests to arrive, surveying the coffeehouse that had been her home for over six years. She put her hands on her hips and breathed in deeply, her chest expanding, and then let it out. She’d accomplished much—the floors, the generators, the roof—and yet nothing at all. It was only a coffeehouse, after all. It wasn’t a school, or an NGO, or an organization to help women or children. It was just a place for people to come and hang out.
The door swung open and Ahmet entered, holding the door open for Yazmina, who carried the baby in a sling, and Layla following behind. Sunny greeted them and led them to the table, which sat under the trees that twinkled with the tiny lights Sunny had woven up their trunks and through their branches. Flickering candles and fresh flowers decorated the length of the table. Sunny served Cokes and tea.
Then Jack came through the door with Bashir Hadi, followed by Halajan and Rashif.
Jack first said his hellos to everyone individually, walking around the table, speaking in the native tongue of each person, shaking hands, kissing cheeks three times. Sunny watched him, her chest filling with love and pride. He looked up, their eyes met, and Sunny felt for a moment like a character in a romantic movie. You idiot, she said to herself, don’t get all sentimental.
And then Candace blew in as if powered by the winds from the Hindu Kush, looking more beautiful than Sunny had ever seen her. It wasn’t her clothes, or her hair, or her bangles and bling; it was that she was happy. Sunny knew that her work and her independence were fulfilling to her. Who knew what the future held—how long she’d want to stay, whether she’d become lonely or if she’d meet someone who loved her the way she deserved to be loved. For now, she was content.
A Cup of Friendship Page 29