A Cup of Friendship (31 page)

L
oss hit Sunny hard, but she had no time to mourn. She continued to work on the wall, which had to be completed before the wedding. Easter had come and gone, forgotten in the aftermath of Isabel’s death. Now she had the wedding decorations to attend to. But tonight the coffeehouse was the site of a memorial to Isabel. Sunny thought it was ironic that in the course of two weeks, the four walls of the coffeehouse would honor the death of a cherished friend and celebrate the wedding of two others.

But that was precisely the point all along. The coffeehouse had become, to Sunny’s deep pride, a place where people gathered, whether just to talk and hang out or to mark life’s most important moments. She had accomplished what she’d set out to do and felt as if her work, and her life in Kabul, was complete.

It was only six o’clock, and though the memorial had been called for seven, the coffeehouse was filled. Sunny sat with Candace and Petr, who’d crawled out from under a rock to attend. He brought some friends from L’Atmo as well, people Sunny hadn’t seen in years. But instead of making her feel nostalgic for that life, they made her feel relieved to be out of it. Probably every journalist in Kabul was there, as well as embassy, UN, and NGO workers whom Isabel had befriended during the course of her work. She’d been tough, but she’d been respected. And by the coffeehouse friends, she’d been loved.

Candace invited women from RAWA, the Revolutionary Afghan Women’s Association, to speak on behalf of women imprisoned for moral crimes, as Isabel would’ve wanted. And she was going to speak about Isabel’s efforts to save Jamila.

The ceremony started with the recitation of the Jewish mourner’s kaddish, led by Zablon Simintov, the Last Jew of Kabul.

“
Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba,
” he began, reading from a small prayer book. “Let us meditate on the meaning of love and loss, of life and death. The contemplation of death should plant within the soul elevation and peace. Above all, it should make us see things in their true light. Grief is a great teacher when it sends us back to serve and bless the living. Thus, even when they are gone, the departed are with us, moving us to live as they wished themselves to live.

“Our Isabel lived a life dedicated to helping others, to telling truths so that others’ lives might be better. But life is finite. Like a candle, it burns; it glows with warmth and beauty. Then the flames fade, but we do not despair for we are more than a memory fading to darkness. With our lives we give life, and Isabel’s life gave life to many. Let us continue her work and her love here on earth.

“
Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya-aseh shalom
, may the Source of peace send peace to all who mourn.
Amen
.”

The room was silent. Candace and Sunny, Halajan and Yazmina, along with almost everyone else, wept for Isabel and for a brilliant life taken too soon.

Candace got up and introduced the women of RAWA, who’d brought literature about women behind bars, or stoned or killed for making their own decisions in personal matters. Then Candace talked about Isabel’s passionate desire to create a network of safe houses for women once they were able to get them released from prison, and for those women running away from untenable circumstances.

Sunny watched her from the back of the room and felt as if a star had been born. Out of the horror of Isabel’s death, which could’ve been meaningless, came Candace, a true force of nature, whose actions could change many lives. Sunny was so proud of her then. But it had always been within Candace. She’d just needed to find the right cause.

At the end of the evening, after people signed up to help with Candace’s safe house effort, and almost everyone had left, including Halajan, Yazmina, and the baby, who’d gone to bed, as well as Bashir Hadi, who’d gone home, Sunny sat with Candace, drinking scotch that Petr had brought in honor of Isabel’s memory. They clinked glasses and then said the Jewish salute of “
L’chaim!
”

They decided that Candace should spend the night, on this night when neither woman could bear being alone. They’d been cut down by one, making the two of them even more critical in the enduring relationship. So Sunny tucked Candace into one of the
toshak
s that lined her walls, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, “Good night, dear friend.”

And then Sunny was alone in the coffeehouse. With thoughts of the countless coffeehouse nights, of Jack in her arms, and the beautiful tribute paid to Isabel, she went outside, lit some kerosene lanterns, and began to paint. Only when she’d finished the final feather on her last dove did she put her brush down and look up at the night sky. It was filled with stars. Sunny felt a profound sense of powerlessness—that she, like every other being on the planet, was at the mercy of the gods.

And then Sunny, who never prayed but who felt its power during the service for Isabel, prayed to whichever God might be listening—whether Jewish or Muslim or her own Christian—for Jack’s return.

T
he wedding was to take place the next night, before the onset of Ramadan. Yazmina had made her own wedding dress, and Rashif had sewn a special matrimonial vest, pants, and jacket for Ahmet. Bashir Hadi had planned the menu and ordered the ingredients. Sunny was in charge of decorations, and Halajan was supervising everyone. It was, after all, to be the wedding of her only son with her daughter-in-spirit.

Friends of the coffeehouse were invited by phone and email. Sunny had gone to the market to purchase fabric with the traditional patterns in bright colors of pink and orange, blue and green, woven into bold prints of medallions and geometrics. When she told the shopkeeper what the fabric was for, he was delighted and handed her the business cards of florists, musicians, photographers, and an entire phalanx of specialists in Kabul’s wedding industry. Bridegrooms were expected to pay, and not only for the wedding itself but for the several pre-wedding parties as well as a kind of reverse dowry—a payment to the bride’s family. Middle-class families, who lived on seventy-five hundred dollars a year, often shelled out twenty grand or more for a wedding.

She’d gone to the gold market with Ahmet, where they both bought Yazmina gold jewelry as part of her dowry. Sunny was surprised to find herself taking on the role that would normally belong to the bride’s mother, as if she were Yazmina’s. She didn’t mind it. In fact, it suited her.

Now Sunny stood on a ladder and nailed the edges of the fabric to the walls so it draped over them, much like her tents outside on the patio. The entire place looked like the interior of a grand palace. She hung lanterns and made sure that every detail was in place: the speakers and microphone were working, the toilets and sinks were clear, the floors were spotless, the dishes and glasses were sparkling.

Then her cellphone rang, buzzing against her chest where it hung, as usual, on a silk cord around her neck.

“Sunny, is that you?” It was a terrible connection.

“Tommy! Where are you? How’s Jack? Is he—”

And then she was cut off and the connection was gone. She tried calling him once, twice, ten times, but couldn’t get through.

She clasped her phone tightly and prayed they were coming home. She prayed they finally had found Layla and that she was fine, and they were fine, and they were all coming home.

And maybe they hadn’t and they weren’t. But it had been three weeks, so why not now? The wedding was tomorrow. She let herself think foolishly then, to believe like a little girl, that because the day was special, other good things could happen. That the world was like that—things happen in multiples. Isabel is killed. And conversely, Ahmet and Yazmina get married, and Jack comes home with Layla.

You’re a fool, she said to herself. Yeah, and so what of it? As Halajan said to her, since we’re all fools, why not dance? She could believe if she wanted to. And she wanted to.

Halajan put twelve small candles on every little table and lined the counter and the window ledges with them as well. Candles would be everywhere, letting off the flickering light of new life. Her son was to be married tomorrow. The loyal son who stayed by her side all his young life instead of making a new life somewhere else. The traditional son, who surprised her with his open heart.

People, even those closest to you, are surprising. The strength of Yazmina, the gentle spirit of Ahmet, the persistence of Rashif, the vulnerability of Sunny. Nobody is everything that they seem. Least of all her.

She was gaining a daughter and a granddaughter tomorrow. She couldn’t be happier. But she’d also learned a lesson. She, who loved her son, had taken him for granted. So as pleased and proud as she was by his forgiving nature and his ability to change, she was going to cry tomorrow like a river rushing from the Hindu Kush in springtime. Not out of sadness but out of appreciation for her wealth of love. She was going to cry and surprise everybody. She reminded herself to bring plenty of tissues to the ceremony to wipe away her tears.

And the other good part of all this? Rashif and she would have a future together. It was only a matter of time until she’d be decorating her own wedding with the light of many candles.

She pulled Rashif’s most recent letter from her apron pocket and opened it. But she didn’t have to. She’d memorized it from Yazmina’s voice.

Dearest Beloved, my Halajan
,

Your son, Ahmet, is to be married and I am honored that I’ll be at his side to give him away as if he were my own son. I am so pleased he has forgiven me for telling you that one part of our conversation, for I was worried I might have lost him for good. Custom has it that I am to bestow upon him my hopes for his life with his new family. But, as usual, I find myself thinking of you
.

This is what I wish for you, dear Halajan. I wish for you to continue to live as you have all these years, fearlessly, with passion, with big dreams, with caring and kindness, with your strong opinions, and with your arms outstretched. There’s just one other thing I wish for you, and that is to live a life of love with me
.

This is my very last letter to you
.

Yours
,

Rashif

She folded it carefully, put it back in her pocket, and let out a deep sigh. Funny, after all the years of letters, the one thing she’d always wished for, she’d gotten. The writer himself.

Bashir Hadi had already polished the coffeemaker, marinated the meat for the kabobs, and now had time to decorate the car. Everything else was under control.

The boy who delivered the bread every day was delivering it tomorrow as well. Bashir Hadi and Sunny would go early to get the sweets from the bakery. Candied almonds and figs, pistachio cookies, baklava, and honey cakes, raisins, and dates were being prepared. On the way, they’d stop on Chicken Street and pick up an entire carton of boxes of chocolates from Belgium.

As for music, he’d arranged for his wife’s brother and cousin to play the harmonium and tabla, the goat-skinned drums. The classical musical duo were famous in Kabul and known to make parties last into the early morning because of their brilliant beat-dancing music, for which Afghanistan was known.

And he’d hired the best restaurant in Kabul, as Halajan had instructed, to make the food. But who knew better how to make good kabobs? He couldn’t trust anyone else to pick out the perfect young sheep, cut the meat correctly, and prepare the marinade. He’d just finished, and the meat was soaking in the marinade in the refrigerator overnight so that it would be tender and delicious tomorrow.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and leaned, exhausted, against the counter. His wedding hadn’t been like this one at all. It had been almost twenty years ago, when he was only seventeen, his wife a mere fifteen. He’d never met her or even seen her before the wedding. She’d been chosen by his parents, and that was that. He smiled to himself with the memory of that first meeting, as he walked to the stage to assume his seat next to hers. She was completely covered in a large scarf, but when the traditional cloth was put over them so that he might see her with the use of a mirror, she pulled off the scarf and he gasped loudly. Everyone broke into applause upon hearing him. For they already knew what he learned right then: His bride was a beauty, and not merely for the distance between her eyes or because they were as black as night but because those eyes held the warmth and sparkle of Kabul’s stars. They were kind, and they looked at him with love.

His was a successful marriage; others weren’t always. But he knew why his had been so happy. Had he been allowed to see, to get to know, to touch his wife before the wedding, she was the woman he’d have chosen himself.

The last time Ahmet was at Rashif’s tailor shop he’d been pointing a knife at the old man. Now he was standing in front of a mirror, trying on a brand-new suit that Rashif had made for him. He smiled at the irony of the situation, and Rashif, who stood behind him, smiled back, probably thinking the very same thing. Ahmet’s pants were perfectly tailored, as were the matching vest and jacket. The white shirt was crisp but needed a slight adjustment in its sleeve length. Rashif helped him out of the jacket and vest, hanging them carefully, while Ahmet took off the shirt and handed it to Rashif. He sat at his sewing table, put on his reading glasses, and hunched over the machine.

Ahmet stood shirtless in front of the mirror, looking at himself. His shoulders were broad, his chest was taut, his arms muscled, his stomach firm. His was a body formed from years and years of holding that rifle, carting boxes for Sunny or his mother, moving equipment in the coffeehouse. But he liked what he saw. He imagined the wedding night, with Yazmina, lying alone on the new
toshak
s his mother had made them for the occasion. Yazmina’s hands, right here, on his heart, which he covered now with his own. His hand on her hair, down her back, touching for the first time, her beautiful skin, all the while his eyes on those dazzling green eyes of hers …

“Dreaming of your wedding night?”

Ahmet jumped slightly, embarrassed. He looked at Rashif, who smiled.

Ahmet blushed and dropped his hand. “No, I wasn’t.”

“We all do,” Rashif said. “Dream on, Ahmet. I’ll have this ready for you soon.”

Did Rashif mean he dreams of Ahmet’s mother? What a thought! But love, Ahmet now knew, was a powerful thing. And even his mother and Rashif deserved theirs for each other.

Rashif watched Ahmet with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’d never seen the boy so nervous. Ahmet, always the serious
chokidor
, with his strict and narrow interpretations of the Koran that made him seem so young.

Look what love does, Rashif thought, as he pulled Ahmet’s sleeve down to be sure it fit properly at his wrist. It turned a serious boy into a generous man. This was the real Islam, the Islam of love, not hate. Muhammad would be proud, he thought.

Of course, he didn’t have to look farther than his own face to see the effects of love. He himself had never looked so good. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was short, even compared to Ahmet, his hair was now gray, what was left of it, and his shoulders a little stooped. Yet he couldn’t wipe his own grin off his face without Muhammad’s help, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask him to do it. He’d loved Halajan for so long—forty years? more?—that to have lived long enough to be able to spend his life with her, instead of just thinking about her, made him feel young and spry and, he thought, looking at his stubborn smile, just a little silly.

At the wedding tomorrow night, which was to be mixed, men and women together but on opposite sides of the room, in honor of the modern ways that Halajan was so passionate about, he would be able to be in the same room with her for hours, to enjoy the party with her and watch her dance.

Candace vowed to herself to put Wakil behind bars forever. In the weeks since Isabel’s death, Sunny had found Isabel’s general, and Wakil had been arrested because of information Candace had provided to the authorities. But she knew all he had to do was pay some bribes and he’d be out. Then he’d find another lonely woman to take advantage of. And if he ever found out that it was Candace who betrayed him, he’d have her killed. So it was time to let go of Wakil in every way. She had to put her energies into something positive, instead of obsessing about his punishment. Let the military do that. She had so much to do in Kabul, and all the time in the world to do it.

She looked out the window of the small boardinghouse where she was renting a room. It had a lovely view of a dirt-filled, scrappy yard and a wall. What a comedown from the days at the Serena Hotel, or at Wakil’s mansion, which made her shudder to think about, or in Boston on Beacon Hill. And yet, she felt more at peace and more focused, and simply more comfortable in her own skin than she’d ever felt before. She just didn’t want to spend the money she raised on a fancy place when she was going to need it for bribes, safe houses, food, and support for the women she was able to get out of prison.

But she had a wedding to go to tomorrow. She leaned her crutches against the wall, pulled off her T-shirt, and stepped carefully out of her baggy pants—the only kind that fit over her cast. She took the dress that was hanging on her door and felt the luxurious material, ran her hand across the stones, and put the fabric up to her cheek to feel its silkiness. Then she put it on and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her blond hair was perfect with the color, and her skin looked rich and smooth against it. The details of the dress were extraordinary—tucks and pleats, the collar and cuffs, the exquisite fit. Perfect in every way. So she couldn’t wear her high heels. The thigh-high cast added drama of its own.

It wasn’t her wedding, but the intense feeling she had that life for her was beginning anew could’ve convinced her that it was. But this time there was no man to lean on, to support, to help, and to forgive. This time, there was only herself.