Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (10 page)

But here at Sunny's house all was peaceful and quiet, and Layla's dreams had been plentiful. Some she remembered with a smile. Like the one where she had been in the small back courtyard of the coffeehouse, playing ball with Poppy and her little niece Najama. The Kabul sun shone from overhead, the shadow from the pomegranate tree long and slender. The old woman Halajan was standing against the wall watching them with a smile, her breasts hanging loose and low, her head scarf pushed back, and her leathery face turned upward toward the sun like a turtle reaching from its shell. The dream had been so vivid she could almost smell the cigarette smoke that gave away Halajan's secret every time she entered a room. She missed the old woman, with her sharp wit and keen eye. She missed everyone, and everything, back home.

Her other dreams were not so good. Layla had never been able to shed the nightmares about the men who had taken her as revenge for her sister's escape, the memories of those days before Jack had come to rescue her. She had been only twelve years old then, but sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Yazmina had been gone for four months when the same big black SUV that had snatched her away from their uncle's home returned, this time for Layla. The snows had melted, the roads were clear, and the men were determined to get what they came for. But before they got far with her, long before they could reach Kabul, where she would have been sold to the highest bidder to be his third or fourth wife, or forced into a life of slavery or prostitution, this strange Western man dressed in a
shalwaar kameez
, with eyes that sparkled like blue ice and a voice that spoke with calm authority, appeared like a hero in a Bollywood movie and whisked her away and into the arms of her beloved sister. There had to be a special
place in paradise for a man like him, she was sure of it. If it weren't for Jack, she might have never seen Yazmina again. And if it weren't for Sunny, her sister might never have even survived. She made herself a quick promise to try very hard to like it here, to make it work, to show appreciation for all Sunny and Jack had done for her family.

And then there were the dreams of peacocks. She had to laugh a little. Why on earth would she dream of peacocks, silly animals she hadn't given any thought to since she was a child?

She stood and turned to face her image in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, and unfastened the single black braid that hung to her waist. Her shiny hair flowed down thickly over her shoulders, like the cascading waterfalls in the mountains back home. I wonder if Sky will be coming today, she thought as she made one slow stroke with the brush, then another, just as her sister had taught her. Such an odd boy, with those holes as big as plums in his ears, and silver jewelry inside his mouth. She shivered a little just thinking of how that must feel. And those tattoos! At home they would be forbidden, and any boy who would dare to have one would be certain to keep it hidden under his sleeve. And yet, there was something about Sky's gentle eyes, and his sweet smile, and the way his funny curls bounced up and down when he laughed.

“Stop!” she said out loud to herself, yanking her hair practically out of its roots with the brush. What was the matter with her, having thoughts like this? Of course she had not spoken to the boy, other than to say hello, and had only watched him when she knew he wasn't looking. But then, when he was in the same room with her it was as though someone had taken her by the shoulders and spun her around and around, then left her to stand, her head remaining dizzy and light. Nonsense,
she quickly told herself. Perhaps it is merely coincidence. Perhaps there is something here on this island that is making her ill. She checked her forehead with the back of her hand and, satisfied that there was no fever, quickly rebraided her hair, wrapped herself up in the blanket that hung on the back of the chair, and went to say good morning to Sunny.

The afternoon sunlight bounced off the windows of the low cinderblock building, giving the school an eerie, fiery glow. Zara shifted impatiently from foot to foot on the gravel below, anxious for the silence inside to burst into the clamor of giggles and screams that meant class was dismissed, and her sister Mariam ready to be escorted home. Her stomach growled loudly, like a tiger. The knowledge that the news of a wedding could be handed to her at any time was making her ill. She had not eaten in days.

Her stomach turned again as she thought about the conversation that had occurred with her father when he told her he'd been discussing a proposal for her. At first, after she'd gotten up the courage to tell him she still did not wish to marry, she thought everything might be okay. Her father had laughed, throwing his head back in that way she had seen so many times before when she and her sister were very little and did something to amuse
him. At the time she had laughed a bit herself, more out of relief than anything else.

But with his next words she felt her heart sink down to her shoes.

“Of course, my daughter. I understand. Of course you are reluctant to leave the comfort of your family, the home you have known since you were born. But you are grown now, and this is a man of my tribe, our tribe. A man of means, with a house, a car; a man who has made a fine offer for you. You will overcome your girlish jitters. You will see. Even your mother was at first nervous and afraid to marry, and see now how ridiculous that was. It will all be fine.”

“But please,
baba
, I want to continue with my studies,” she protested, knowing that her love for Omar must remain a secret, that her father would consider love a silly reason, one that had no bearing when it came to making a match.

“You have done well with your studies, daughter, and I am proud of you. But you must marry someday. It will be a good marriage. And perhaps it will be possible for you to continue at the university even after you are wed.”

Zara could tell by the look on his face that her father did not fully believe the words that were coming from his own mouth. And when he added the thought that they should not insult a man like this man, the whispers she had heard around the house and the stories she had heard about others all came together, and she began to picture just how things had occurred.

After the man's mother had paid that first call on her mother, no doubt unannounced yet welcomed in for tea, as any caller would be, after she had peppered Zara's mother with questions about Zara, and impressed her with whose daughter, whose wife, whose mother she herself, was, after she assured Zara's
mother that their families were of the same tribe—third cousins in fact—only then would the two women become open with each other about the purpose of the visit. Next would have come a visit to both her parents from the man himself, accompanied by his mother, and perhaps an aunt. At the end of the conversation, if her parents were satisfied with the proposal being made for their daughter, they would have expressed their willingness to accept by bringing out the
khuncha
, the silver tray decorated with flowers and ribbons, to offer the traditional
shirini
, sweets, to the man's family. If they had done that, it would mean the bond had been made.

“You gave them the sweets.”

Her father did not reply right away.

“You did, didn't you? You passed the
khuncha
.”

Again her father did not answer.

“Please,
baba
. Do not make me marry this man.”

Zara held her father's gaze firm with her own pleading eyes. For a moment he seemed to soften a bit, his brows and shoulders heavy with the weight of the situation. But she feared things had already gone too far, and had doubts that he would ever change his mind.

Not a word more about the proposal had been said since that day. She had still not seen Omar in class, and she was too worried to send him a message with her phone, fearing her parents might see. Now she pulled her head scarf tighter around her neck. As she looked down to check the time she saw a shadow pass over her phone's glass surface. She raised her eyes to see a looming figure dressed all in black, with a pair of thick, wire-framed glasses resting on the tip of her nose, standing before her.

“The principal wishes to speak with you,” the woman said with an expressionless face.

Zara's heart filled with dread. This principal, Faheem, was a man who ran the school with an iron fist, a fist that was said to turn quickly into a groping paw once watchful eyes were diverted. Her friend Shafia was not the only one who told tales like this. So far Zara had managed to keep her distance.

“My mother is not here with me. Is my sister all right?”

The woman simply turned and headed inside, expecting Zara to follow. Had Mariam misbehaved in class? She was usually such an obedient girl. But whatever this man had to say, Zara knew better than to take it too seriously. His professional reputation was that of an incompetent man, one who greedily considered position and favors as his right, like so many others in Kabul these days. It was clear to everyone that he benefited from a source of money over what his job allowed.

Faheem's coal-black eyes, and the tight little smile he wore as he stood behind his immense desk, told her more than she wanted to know. To Zara's dismay, he ordered the woman to go bring her little sister from her classroom once the lessons were over, leaving the two of them alone together in the room. Zara wondered how much this woman was paid to allow something so improper to take place. “Please, sit.” He pointed Zara to a wooden chair positioned across from his desk, but she remained standing, the smell of cigarettes and musk clogging her throat with a stale sweetness. Faheem slicked a wisp of unnaturally dark hair across his forehead and asked, “May I offer you some
chai
?”, his voice like honey.

Zara shook her head, her eyes pointed out the window toward the empty schoolyard. “Just some water, please,” she croaked, her throat suddenly as dry as the desert floor.

Faheem clapped his hands twice, summoning a skinny young man who seemed to appear out of thin air. “Water for my guest!”
he barked at the quivering boy, who quickly ran out through the open door to do as he was told. Faheem turned back to Zara. “So,” he folded his hands in front of his chest, “how is your family?”

“My family is well.”

“Your father, he is fine?” he asked with a smile that revealed a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

Zara nodded, puzzled by the politeness of this man who was usually so stern.

“He is in good health, then?”

“My father is in fine health,” she answered, squirming a little at his probing.

“That is good to hear.” He nodded slowly up and down. “So there is no reason he cannot leave the house?”

“No,” Zara answered, confused.

“You see, he and I have some important things to talk about.”

“Is my sister in some sort of trouble?”

Faheem laughed, causing a drop of spittle to escape down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “No, no trouble. It is not your sister I am waiting to discuss.”

“If you have dealings with my father then you must speak with him and not me.” Zara lowered her eyes to the floor, where the man's shiny black shoes glistened from their spot under the desk, despite the dullness of the bulb flickering above.

“You know, my little bird, you should let me see that pretty face of yours, and not turn it away from mine.”

Zara flinched at the sound of his words. She felt as though his eyes were boring a hole right through her clothes. Faheem started toward her from around the desk, his steps slow and deliberate. The hair on the back of her neck rose like that of a cat. Just then the boy returned with her water.

“And where is my Coke?” Faheem roared. “Can you not do one job right, you stupid donkey?” Faheem dug deep into his pocket and flung a handful of coins toward the boy, who scrambled to gather them up. “And while you are at it, bring me back some cigarettes, and not those cheap Chinese pine ones they sell around the corner.” Zara wanted to yell out to the boy, to beg him to stay, but when Faheem deftly pushed the door closed behind him with his foot, she steeled herself for the ordeal ahead. But nothing could have prepared her for what came next.

Faheem now stood facing the window, one arm bent at the elbow as he stroked his beard, a patch of hair as black as that on his head, a shade that matched nothing in nature. “I hear that you are a serious girl, one who likes to study.” He turned back toward her.

“That is true,” Zara answered in a small voice, for one second thinking that maybe she'd been mistaken, that this man, a school principal, might be preparing to commend her for her diligence. She reached for a sip of her water.

“But you know,” he continued as he paced the room, “it is the role of a wife that is an honored one.” He stopped before her, so close now that she could smell the sour breath escaping from his mouth. “A girl like you,” he said, “would be lucky to have a man as handsome and rich as me to take care of all her needs.”

Zara placed the glass back down on the edge of the desk, her hand trembling.

Now Faheem ran his manicured hands slowly down the sides of his shiny Western suit, as if he were a prince preparing to address his kingdom. “And a family like yours, a family of no consequence, would earn great respect through your marriage to a man of my stature. It is a mystery to me why your father hesitates to give me his answer.”

She grabbed the edge of the desk as the strength left her legs. An avalanche of despair descended on her. This could not be true, what he was saying. But why would he lie? A million thoughts flooded Zara's brain. Not once had she heard this man's name mentioned in her household, unless it was talk about his school. She knew nothing of any other connection of his family to hers.

“And you, what do you have to say, my bride? I'm sure they've taught you to speak your opinions at the university. Have you no answer for that?” He reached for the glass and turned it to plant his mouth for a sip from the exact spot where hers had touched, then licked his thick lips as though tasting her for the first time.

She had no words. How she wanted to yell and turn and run, as loud and as fast and as far as her feet would take her. But instead she heard a small, shaky voice coming from her. “I don't want to be a wife. I just want to continue my studies.”

Faheem laughed again, louder and longer this time. “Do not be foolish, little one. I can give you more than a college degree will ever bring.” He reached out toward her, his soft doughy hand slowly brushing the hollow of her cheek, sliding down along the side of her neck, coming to rest at the top of her collarbone.

Zara froze at the sting of his touch, her face burning with shame. Never in her life had she been treated in this manner by any man. She pushed his hand away.

Faheem reddened with anger. “You are a feisty little one, aren't you?” he hissed as he grabbed her wrist. “No matter. I will see to that, once we are wed.”

“I will never marry you!” she heard herself say before she had the chance to think, as she struggled to break free of his grasp.

Faheem held tight to her wrist. “No matter what you say, you are already mine. The deal is as good as done. Your father would not dare to say no. Not to someone like me.”

It was then that she felt the tears dropping off of her cheeks and onto the floor.

“And be aware that I always take great care to keep track of what is mine.” Faheem pointed the first two fingers of his free hand at his own eyes. “My eyes are everywhere.” He dropped her wrist as if he were discarding a morsel of meat not to his liking, and returned to his chair behind the desk. “The way you let your head scarf fall back while you are at the university,” he hissed, “and the clothes that you wear there. Why do you dress like a whore? Is there someone you are perhaps trying to impress? Is that what all this nonsense is about?” He leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers together.

Zara stood shaking, silent, refusing to answer.

Suddenly the front feet of Faheem's chair hit the ground with a thud. In an instant he was back at her side, ripping the purse from her shoulder. He thrust his hand inside and pulled out her phone, holding it high above her head, out of her reach. “I am watching you, my child. I know where you go, what you do. I know who your friends are. And if there is someone else, I will find out who.” He threw the phone into a drawer and slammed it shut. “Patience is bitter,” he laughed, “but its fruit is sweet. And I am sure, my child, that yours will be sweet fruit indeed.”