A Cup of Friendship (24 page)

He finally looked up from his work and said, “It’s good you’re back. You—” But he stopped himself.

“Bashir Hadi?” She looked at him imploringly.

“You left for your trip with Tommy and then guess what happened?”

“Don’t tell me another bomb?” she said, quickly looking around the coffeehouse. “Or that a pipe burst or the roof—”

“No!”

Then Halajan walked in and asked, “So did you tell her that Jack was here?”

“You mean he’s back? He’s here in Kabul?” Her eyes lit up, and she breathed out hard.

Bashir Hadi shook his head from side to side. “He walked in only an hour after you left.” He watched Sunny’s face fall. And he pointed to the flowers. “They were beautiful when he brought them.”

Halajan started to say something, but Sunny didn’t hear it. She’d already grabbed her stuff and was running to her room.

She took her cellphone from around her neck and dialed his number.

“Is that you?” It was his deep, masculine voice.

“It’s me,” she said.

“How’re the doves?”

“Lovely, you wouldn’t believe what—I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Send me a postcard.” He was about to hang up.

“Come over.”

“Yeah, maybe, when you get back,
if
you get back.”

“I’m back already, here at the coffeehouse.”

There was silence.

“Jack! You can’t blame me for going. You were gone. And hardly a word the entire time! Tommy came home and—”

“Hardly a word, if I remember right. He was never very articulate, that guy.”

Sunny had to agree. “So come on over. I came back without even knowing you were here. And we didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You think I’d worry about that? I never did see what you saw in Tommy. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, but not much in the brains department.”

“All right, you. You don’t have to go insulting my choices, okay? And what about you and Pamela, anyway?”

“It’s over. ‘We’ve grown apart’ were her exact words. Like a scene out of a movie. ‘We’ve grown apart,’ can you believe it? She’s gotten used to me being gone, and now, with Charlie going to college, she wants out. At least my kid still calls me ‘Dad.’ ”

“Jack, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t blame her,” he said. “I feel the same way.”

There was a long, silent pause. And then Sunny asked, “So, tell me. You didn’t sleep with your wife?”

“Funny, and this may be the first time in history that a man is proud to say this to the woman he loves: I promise I didn’t sleep with my wife once. I’m on my way.”

And she, the woman he loved, waited for Jack to come home.

I
sabel took Candace to the Pul-e Charkhi prison east of downtown Kabul. It was even more shocking for her on this second visit, perhaps because sharing it made it more real than it had seemed the first time. There were some faces she hadn’t remembered seeing, but there in the fifth cell, locked behind the blue bars with a dozen other women, was the one who haunted Isabel, the one who spoke English and pulled on her
kameez
and begged her for help.

This time, Isabel was able to steal a minute to talk to the woman while Candace chatted with the guard. Isabel squatted low so that she was face-to-face with her. She looked younger than she’d remembered.

“What’s your name?” asked Isabel.

“Jamila,” she answered.

“Jamila, how are you doing? Are they treating you all right? Do you have enough to eat?”

She glanced quickly at the guard to be sure she wasn’t listening.

“They treat us like animals—only goats are fed more than we are and have a choice between grasses on the hillside or leftovers. We eat only leftovers.”

A voice behind her said, “The grasses would be better!”

And all the women laughed just enough to get the attention of the guard, who said nothing but glared at them. But then Candace said something to her, and the guard turned her attention back to her.

“Can you help us?”

“That’s why we’ve returned. To help get you out.”

“I cannot go without my sisters. Please help them, too.” And she gestured to all the women in the cell. “And their children, who must stay with them wherever they are.”

“I don’t know when or how many, but we’ll try.”

“Otherwise, they will sell me as a slave for—” But she stopped herself, the color in her cheeks rising. “For men.”

“What are you saying? The prison will sell you?”

“Yes, they send the young ones like me to the Gulf, or worse yet, we stay in Afghanistan, for the pleasure of men.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because they took my friend Haliya, whom they traded for money outside of Kabul, but she ran away. She’d overheard them talking when she pretended to be sleeping in the back of the van. When they caught her, they beat her, destroyed her face, and threw her away like garbage. The police picked her up and brought her back and she told us what she’d heard.”

“Is Haliya here now?”

“Yes, in the corner there. I’ll get her.”

Jamila brought over a woman whose face was covered with a scarf. She held it close to her, allowing only one eye to be seen.

Jamila whispered something in her ear. Haliya looked at her, and Jamila nodded. Then Haliya removed the scarf from her face.

Isabel’s stomach turned. Haliya’s face had been hideously disfigured. One eye was gone, the skin on that side of her face bunched and ribbed like a sock that had fallen around an ankle. The corner of her mouth blended into her cheek, leaving a gaping hole in the side of her mouth.

“Because she ran away, they did this to her, they threw acid on her, saying, ‘Now you’re too ugly for anyone.’ They are worse than dogs, these things that would call themselves men.”

Isabel looked at Haliya, trying to keep her eyes on her so as not to make her feel ashamed that she couldn’t be looked at. But she couldn’t help but feel relieved when Haliya covered her face again.

“Can you help us? Will you?” pleaded Jamila.

“We will try.”

“Is this your friend?” She pointed to Candace, who by now was at Isabel’s side, having so charmed the guard that she’d backed off and was standing in the doorway.

Isabel looked up at her and felt strongly that, yes, she was her friend, even with their differences. It was Candace who’d encouraged her to come, to help. It was Candace who believed in her. “Yes,” she said, “and my partner. We work together.”

Candace put a steady hand on the woman’s shoulder. “We will be back for you. Don’t be afraid.”

“Please don’t go. Take us with you!”

“It’s not as easy as that. But we will be back,” Candace said, not taking her eyes off the woman. “I promise you that.”

Wakil made the arrangements for a car to drive them to his valley. Candace had called him to let him know that she was coming with a friend, a journalist for the BBC who wanted to write a story about his school. (At least the BBC part was true.) She had a feeling he’d be pleased to get the media coverage, and she was right. In return, she hoped to enlist his help for the women in the prison. She thought that with his contacts he’d be able to get the necessary food and supplies, and then bribe their way through the gauntlet of officials and guards. In the meantime she could focus on raising enough money and finding a place to shelter them once she got them out.

He was there waiting for them, wearing his best
shalwaar kameez
, Pashtun vest, and expensive silk turban when they pulled up. His beard was neatly trimmed, he was as tall and fit as ever, and he looked strikingly handsome. Candace felt the hollowness of yearning in her chest. It had been over a month since they’d been intimate, but sex with Wakil wasn’t something she’d ever forget. He greeted her in his usual publicly stolid fashion, with a small bow and a cool smile, and when he was introduced to Isabel, he smiled broadly and became expansive as he talked about his achievements. Candace was both proud to be a part of what was going on here and hurt that he didn’t appreciate her anymore beyond her ability to bring in money. But she did her duty and brought up the rear as Wakil took them on a tour. As he talked, Isabel taped him with her recorder and stopped to take photographs. Candace couldn’t wait to hear what Isabel had to say.

The clinic was even more impressive than the last time she was there. It was clean, well staffed, brightly lit, and amply supplied. There were more doctors now because Candace had raised extra funds from private donors and had loosened up some American money from health organizations.

The school was another thing altogether. It was afternoon, so the girls had gone home and the boys were studying. Before they entered, Wakil asked Isabel to turn off her tape recorder so she wouldn’t inadvertently interrupt the boys’ studies. She was to stop taking pictures so as not to cause a distraction. Candace noticed Isabel frown, unhappy with the restrictions but polite enough to adhere to them. She watched Isabel jot down some notes, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then she looked out at the serious young faces in the room, and she made some notes again. Candace had a feeling that Isabel was going to be critical of the school, probably accuse it of being too serious, overly disciplined. The boys were studying the Koran, sitting on their knees on carpets, swaying forward and back as they read along with the teacher at the front of the room.

There was one boy, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, following her with his eyes. He smiled thinly at her, and she smiled back. And then his smile disappeared and all that was left were his dull, dark eyes, a bitter look on his face.

When she mentioned him to Wakil later, he responded, “You’d look like that, too, if your entire family was killed by an American bomb dropped on your village. These are all sad boys. They are lost and we provide a home for them.”

During the tour of the grounds, Isabel whispered to Candace, “It’s a little quiet here, no? For all these kids? Very disciplined.”

“Wakil’s a serious guy. He’s intent on teaching these kids something so that they’ll have more of a future than selling some rugs in the market with a
MADE IN CHINA
label on them.”

“Well then, he’s doing a good job.”

What Isabel didn’t mention was the notion that was gnawing at her insides. She’d seen reports on similar places in Pakistan. Schools, madrassas, that were covers for terrorist training. The school had an extremely rigid feel to it: no talking, all prayer, nothing childlike about these children. Could it be a training ground for the boys? That there were girl students here felt disingenuous. She’d have to do some research when they got back to Kabul. She’d have to find out more about Wakil and his pursuits. He seemed too slick to be in this for the kids alone.

Candace finally got Wakil alone, in his office, while one of his assistants continued to show Isabel around the compound. Candace locked the door from the inside and said, “When will I see you again?” She walked up to him, daringly close. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body.

“Soon, my love, soon. I’ve been unable to get away. But do you see how much we’ve accomplished here?” He took a strand of her hair between his index and middle fingers.

She took that as an invitation and stood on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear. “When soon? Will you come to Kabul? Wakil,” she said, her lips fluttering against his skin, “it’s been too long. What about us? Can I stay here with you?”

He lifted her chin and kissed her softly, his full mouth lightly on hers. “My dear Candace, nothing has happened, only that critical things have taken precedence. I will come to Kabul very, very soon—to see you.” He kissed her again, more firmly this time. “And also, because our resources are running low and we need to invest in some major supplies, such as computers and better Internet.” He took her in his arms and kissed her hard and passionately. “Will you help me?”

“I was just going to ask you the very same thing,” she said before feeling his tongue in her mouth and his arms circling her and then one hand on her breast and then down her side to her legs, and then between them. Her knees weakened, and she let her hand roam until she felt his hardness and there, against the wall of his office in the school he’d built from nothing, Candace made love to Wakil with the hope that this meant he did truly love her, knowing all the while he didn’t.

When Wakil escorted the two women to their car, he was formal and distant, as if the last hour they’d spent together hadn’t happened. Candace knew he had to keep up appearances, but sometimes, just sometimes, a smile or a knowing look would be nice.

As they approached their car, she noticed another parked on the other side of the building. Two men were getting in the front, and a third turned their way. It was that same sullen, dull-eyed boy she’d seen earlier. Wakil waved to him and turned to her and Isabel and said, “Excuse me one moment, please,” and walked over to him. They spoke, the boy nodded, he got into the car, and it sped off.

Candace turned to Isabel, who was watching as well. It was nothing, a word, a good-bye. She hoped hers with Wakil would be warmer, that for her he would say something to remember. But as he walked back their way, stiffly, his chin high, his expression blank, she knew she was going to be disappointed. She’d keep helping him—how could she turn her back on the children?—but she was going to shoot herself if she ever, ever again expected more from him than a periodic smile and a roll in the hay.