Saving Kabul Corner

by N. H. Senzai

  “Oh,” said Laila. “Well, the last item on the list is also a million-dollar question. Who vandalized Kabul Corner?”

  “I’ll swear again,” said Wali, raising his hands. “We had nothing to do with that. We were having a family dinner last night, and everyone stayed at the house until well past nine o’clock.”

  “Well, if your family didn’t do it, then according to the police it was a bunch of teenagers, destroying property for fun,” said Mariam.

  “I don’t know,” said Ariana. “Even though Wong Plaza has gotten kind of run-down over the years, it’s always been a safe place.”

  “There’s always that first time,” said Wali with a shrug.

  Laila picked up the flyer, a contemplative look on her face. “What if someone else is pitting the two families against each other?” she ventured.

  Ariana sat up in surprise.

  The question got Wali’s attention and he paused, eyes wide. “That makes sense in an odd sort of way,” he said. “If neither of our families put up those flyers or vandalized your store, then someone else must have done it.”

  Mariam took the flyer from Laila. “Look, the purpose of the flyer is to ruin Pamir Market’s reputation, and we know that neither family had anything to do with it. But, although it’s an important clue, it’s circumstantial.”

  “What’s circumstantial?” asked Laila and Ariana at the same time.

  “Well, I’ve watched enough episodes of Unlawful Conduct to know that the horse meat flyers are like fingerprints. Fingerprints found at the scene of a crime can confirm that someone was present but they don’t necessarily prove that they did anything illegal.”

  “Oh,” said Laila, still looking a little confused.

  “We need to prove our hypothesis that someone else is behind the feud by finding direct evidence—concrete proof—that a mysterious third party is behind the whole thing.”

  “That’s the key,” said Wali. “We need to know who it was and why they did it.”

  “Now, that really is the billion-dollar question,” said Mariam.

  Laila flipped the page of her notebook and started another list titled Potential Suspects.

  “Who would benefit from the stores being shut down?” pondered Mariam.

  They sat around looking at one another, unable to come up with a name.

  “How about your landlady?” asked Mariam, throwing out a name.

  Ariana frowned, remembering the look of worry on Mrs. Wong’s face when she’d come into Kabul ­Corner after the horse meat flyers had gone up. “I don’t think she could be behind this,” she said. “When she came into the store after the flyers went up, she was really upset.”

  Wali nodded. “She was really happy when my dad signed the lease to open Pamir Market.”

  “Yeah,” said Ariana, remembering her father and uncle talking about Hooper’s Diner. “She doesn’t want any of the stores in Wong Plaza shutting down. She’ll lose a lot of rent.”

  “Okay,” said Mariam. “Who else? We really need to brainstorm here.”

  “How about the other store owners?” said Wali, warming up to the task.

  “We’ve known them for years,” said Ariana. “Why would they do something like this?”

  “It’s hard to know anyone’s motives,” said Mariam.

  “Yeah,” said Wali. “Maybe someone wants your store because it has the best location.”

  Ariana reluctantly nodded. They did have the biggest store on the plaza, at the best location, anchored on the west end of the strip. She’d once overheard Mr. Milan telling her father that he would love to have more space to add a line of teak furniture at the Emporium.

  So they added to the list Juan Martinez, Gopal and Neela Milan, Soo Min Koo, and Harold and Minerva Smith.

  “Who else could want the stores out of business?” pushed Mariam.

  “Well, we can add the new owner of the Beadery Bead Shoppe, and Mr. Hooper.”

  “But Hooper’s Diner shut down,” said Mariam.

  “He had a heart attack,” Ariana added. “He’s retired and living with one of his sons—I think he’s a lawyer and lives in Palo Alto, on the other side of the bay.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to list him,” said Wali.

  “Oh, there was a woman,” said Ariana, remembering. “Leslie something or other, who was interested in our store. She wanted to turn it into a pizza joint.”

  Laila scribbled her name down too. Ten minutes later, while Laila jotted down the last of their notes, Ariana glanced at Wali from under her eyelashes. Reservations still plagued her, but she realized that if they were going to be a team, she had to trust him. Wali looked up and caught her staring; he gave her a slight nod, and she returned it. It was a done deal. They were in this together and they needed to solve the mystery of who was trying to drive their stores out of business, before something else bad happened.

  The foursome collected their things and disbanded, exhausted. After much thought they’d decided not to tell the grown-ups about their suspicions. Wali had said it best. “Do you really think our parents are going to believe us? They’ll think we’re nuts if we tell them that someone else is trying to make it look like our families are feuding.” The others had agreed and decided to keep their lips zipped. Besides, their parents were constantly preoccupied these days—worried about the feud, their families and financial uncertainty. Telling the grown-ups about their suspicions would freak them out, and they would probably order the kids to stop snooping around and wasting their time. Stopping was something they couldn’t do—the strange clues were begging them to uncover the truth.

  THE ONE PERSON ARIANA was dying to tell was Hava Bibi. After seeing her grandmother and Tofan Baba together at the fair, she thought that those two would take the kids seriously. After she and Laila got ready for bed that night, they headed downstairs for milk and cookies, hoping to talk to their grandmother. On their way down the phone rang, and Laila tensed, as she usually did when the shrill sound reverberated through the house. Ariana looked at her and gave her what she hoped was a calming smile.

  “Hello?” said Jamil. After a minute he said, “And you are certain?” A long pause followed. “Yes, Sergeant Maxwell, I will convey the message to her.”

  The girls stood, transfixed, a worried look spreading across Laila’s face as she clutched the locket at her throat. Getting a call from the army doesn’t sound good, thought ­Ariana, and she gave Laila’s hand a comforting squeeze.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs as Jamil hurried out of the kitchen, rounded the corner, and disappeared into the garage, while calling out, “Mother, Nasreen, Zainab, please come into the garage.”

  “What’s going on?” whispered Laila, her eyes a stormy jade.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find out,” said Ariana.

  They were sitting in silence, dipping their cookies in milk, when they heard Nasreen call them into the living room ten minutes later. The adults were sitting against the cushions, their faces drawn.

  “What happened?” Ariana burst out, not able to contain her growing anxiety.

  Laila crept over to sit between her mother and Hava Bibi, while Ariana stood.

  “It’s your father, jaan. He’s . . . ,” began Zainab Khala, her voice breaking.

  Hava Bibi gently interrupted while hugging Laila. “There was battle near Jalalabad,” she said, her voice oddly upbeat. “You father’s battalion came across a group of Taliban soldiers, and during the fight Hamza got separated from the rest of his troops.”

  “But they found him, right?” asked Laila.

  “No, sweetheart,” said Zainab Khala, wiping her eyes with her shawl. “They did a perimeter search, but they haven’t found him yet.”

  “Is he . . . dead?” whispered Laila.

  “No, no . . . ,” said Nasreen, trailing off.

  Ariana
knew what she meant. If Uncle Hamza was dead, they’d have found his body.

  “Sergeant Maxwell is very hopeful that he’ll be found soon,” said Jamil. “They think Hamza has found a hiding spot, and when things calm down, he’ll find his way back.”

  “Now, I know you cannot help but worry,” said Hava Bibi. “But pray to Allah that he returns safe and unharmed.”

  Laila nodded, her movements jerky.

  “I’m going to make some phone calls,” said Jamil. “Maybe some of our friends have contacts in that area that can help.”

  The women got up to make tea, and Ariana, not knowing how to make Laila feel better, grabbed her hand and guided her into the garage. They’d do something that always calmed Ariana down.

  “Maybe he was taken hostage,” muttered Laila.

  “Don’t think the worst,” Ariana said, patting Laila’s back as she settled her at her father’s desk.

  As she reached for the origami box, her gaze fell on her calendar. Ariana had been preoccupied with the worried looks her parents, aunt, and uncle had been exchanging when they thought the kids weren’t looking. Both families had been quietly cutting costs—fewer trips, to cut down on gas; no more fancy purchases or visits to the movies; and the thermostat was set to a lower temperature to save on electricity. She’d even heard Uncle Shams whisper the dreaded word “bankruptcy,” but her father had quickly shushed him up.

  Ariana examined the line of bright red Xs that stopped on October 16. A line of empty white boxes stretched into the future, and the image of her room shimmered before her, slowly fading beyond her reach. It looked more and more likely that her father would forfeit their deposit on the new house, if he hadn’t done so already. They were struggling to survive; there was no extra money for the mortgage. There would be no new house. There would be no new room. Stamping down the urge to rip the calendar off the wall and feel sorry for herself, Ariana focused on what Laila must have been going through. It was just a house. She couldn’t even imagine her father being missing. She grabbed her origami box and extracted two sheets of six-by-six inch duo paper, bright red on one side and pale pink on the other. She rubbed a crisp sheet soothingly between her fingers, feeling the lightweight paper practically float in her hand.

  “Come on. I want to show you how to make a cherry blossom,” she told her cousin, trying to make her voice upbeat.

  Laila looked a bit dazed, but took the page as if it were a lifeline.

  Ariana turned on the radio, and soon the garage was filled with the sounds of bouncy pop music. “Look here,” she said, pointing to a page in the origami book.

  With the red side up she showed Laila how to fold the paper in half on the horizontal axis and make a nice crease. The next step involved creating an X crease, but she needed a ruler to make sure it was precise. She opened the left-hand drawer, looking for her father’s office supplies, but instead she found a stack of files. On the edge she caught the words “Police Report: Kabul Corner.”

  Without thinking, she pulled it out and laid it under the lamp. Most of the first page contained official details, such as the police officers’ badge numbers, the location of the store, and the time the incident was reported. The details from the crime scene filled the following pages. On page two Ariana saw Officer Nguyen’s notes, and the first line of the second paragraph leapt out at her.

  We found no sign of forcible entry into the store . . .

  She frowned, not fully understanding what that meant. Then she continued reading. At the bottom was written, The front store windows were broken from the inside out, as we can see from the pattern of glass shards radiating out onto the sidewalk.

  “Laila,” whispered Ariana. “Look at this.”

  Her cousin looked away from the origami book. “What is it?”

  “The officer wrote that the front door of the store was not forced open.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Laila.

  “Someone went through the front door without breaking it open. They couldn’t have gone through the front windows, since they were broken from the inside out, not the other way around.”

  “Do you think your father or Uncle Shams accidentally left the door open?”

  “I don’t know. . . . Father and Uncle Shams are so careful about closing up these days.”

  “Who else has a key to the store?”

  “The only other person, besides my father and Uncle Shams, is Mrs. Wong, our landlady.”

  “But we’ve ruled her out as a suspect,” said Laila.

  Ariana nodded, but a sense of uncertainty grew inside her. Even though Lucinda didn’t benefit from the feud, and actually was harmed by it, she was the only other person with a key to the store.

  • • •

  The next day Wali met Ariana a few blocks down from Wong Plaza. “Are you ready for phase two?” he asked as they began their short walk to Mrs. Wong’s house.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Ariana replied. Within a few short minutes they were at Mrs. Wong’s door. Before she could knock, Wali stopped her. “Ariana—”

  “Call me Ari,” she said. “All my friends do.”

  “Uh, okay,” said Wali with a nervous smile. “I just want to say thank you. Thank you for trusting me to work with you guys. I know we didn’t get off to a good start, and I wish things were better between our families, and us, but I’m really glad we’re doing this together.” Then he stuck out his hand toward her.

  Ariana stared down at his long fingers with their neatly clipped nails and tentatively shook them. “I’m glad too,” she said.

  “Okay, then,” said Wali, gesturing toward the red peeling door with the brass knocker.

  Taking a deep breath, Ariana muttered to Wali, “Keep your eyes open for clues.” She knocked on the faded door of the one-story bungalow that served as Mrs. Wong’s house and her office.

  Mrs. Wong opened the door and gazed at them through bifocals, her black eyes magnified. “Hello, kids. This is a surprise. How can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wong,” said Ariana. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but Wali and I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Sure, come on in,” said Mrs. Wong, opening the door so they could slip inside. “I was just watching The Price Is Right with my son. He just loves guessing the prices of those silly prizes. They’re competing over a washer and dryer right now.”

  The kids made their way into the living room and spotted Mrs. Wong’s son sitting next to the television screen, rocking back and forth, his hands clasped together. He was forty-three years old but had the exuberance of a kindergartner.

  “Hi, Martin,” said Ariana. She’d met him many times over the years when he’d accompanied Mrs. Wong to the store.

  Martin grinned and waved back, graham cracker crumbs covering the front of his Mickey Mouse T-shirt. “Green nuts?” he said, looking at her expectantly.

  Martin loved pistachios, and Ariana would help shell them for him when he visited Kabul Corner.

  “I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t bring any,” said Ariana. “Next time, I promise.” She wished she’d remembered to bring him some, but her mind was overwhelmed with their investigation.

  “Take a seat. How about I round us up some lemonade?” asked Mrs. Wong.

  As they waited in the living room, Ariana fidgeted on the edge of the sofa, running her hands over the faded nubby fabric, which felt both soft and rough against her palm, heightening her sense of anticipation. Next to her Wali eyed a stack of documents sitting on the coffee table and scooted closer to inspect them. Ariana glanced through the arched doorway, across the hall into the dining room, where a heavy dining table practically groaned under a stack of papers. Behind it hung a corkboard, lined with keys. Interesting, she thought, noticing that each key was labeled.

  To calm her nerves she grabbed a copy of the local paper, the Tri
City Express. The headline screamed Mayoral Elections Heating Up, and beneath it were pictures of Ronald Hammersmith and Ana Cardoso. A reporter named Terry Yurkovich had written a short article about how the elections were turning personal. Ronald had accused Ana of trying to influence the teachers union with promises to increase school funding. Ana denied the allegation and questioned Ronald’s recent land-acquisition deal and his efforts to rezone certain Fremont neighborhoods. It sounded pretty boring to Ariana, who looked over to see that Wali was quickly flipping through the papers, his lips pursed in concentration.

  He can’t get caught doing that, she thought. Her heart hammered against her ribs. What if Lucinda comes back suddenly? She shot over to the arched doorway and positioned herself to watch the hall that led down to the kitchen. But as she glanced into the dining room, she spotted the corkboard with the keys again. Overcome with curiosity, she scurried around the heavy dining table and scrutinized the ten sets of keys hanging in two rows. Pasted above each key was a label with a store name. The first name was Kabul Corner, since it was the store that anchored the west end of the plaza. Next door to it was Juan More Tacos, then Milan’s Indian Emporium. The last key on the board was Pamir Market, the last store in the plaza. Each key had a key chain with the corresponding store name. But something was off, and then she saw what it was. The keys for Kabul Corner and Pamir Market had been switched; they hung in the wrong spots. As she reached out to touch them, she heard a creak along the hardwood floor. She shot back across the hall into the living room, clearing her throat loudly to alert Wali that Mrs. Wong was headed back. Wali quickly restacked the sheets and grabbed the cartoon section of the newspaper.

  Mrs. Wong sat down with a muffled sigh. “What can I help you kids with?”

  Ariana took a big gulp of the too-sweet lemonade and decided to just jump in. “Mrs. Wong, I’m sure you know what happened at our store.” She decided to keep mum about the “no forcible entry” bit.

  “I know. I feel just terrible about it,” said Mrs. Wong, her frown revealing a map of worry lines etched across her face. “The police called me that night, and thankfully, I had my cell phone. I was in Sacramento visiting my brother and told the police I’d come down first thing in the morning. . . .”