Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (12 page)

“Hey, guys, give me a hand, would you?”

Kat opened the kitchen door to see a heap of blankets with Sunny's legs attached. The pile landed on the floor with a thud and a cloud of dust.

“You're not going to believe what I've found, out in the barn.” Sunny seemed out of breath, and though her eyes appeared a little wet and puffy, her cheeks glowed like a burner set on high. “You
have
to see this. Come on, you two lazybones, hurry!” Layla closed the book on the table before her and tilted her head at Kat, who gestured for her to come along.

Now what, Kat wondered, as she watched Sunny shifting back and forth from foot to foot with impatience. Never before had she come across a woman so unpredictable. One minute she'd be all bossy, like the time she had come to ask Kat to teach Layla. Kat hadn't even had a chance to think it over before it was all settled. But the next minute she'd seem sort of
sad and confused. Sometimes, when Sunny didn't know she was watching, Kat would see her sitting on the living room couch with Bear's head resting on her lap, looking out over the water with a glassy stare, as if she were in a trance or something. Right now she just seemed kind of excited.

Kat liked Sunny, and was finding the job to be actually okay, despite the fact that she hadn't uttered a word in Dari for so long. But Kat made a point of keeping her conversations with Layla to English as much as she could, anyway. When Sunny asked her why, saying something about how she would love to have the house filled with the sounds of Afghanistan, Kat claimed a dislike for the sound of the language which honestly, to her, seemed so rude and abrupt when compared to English. The word please was not used much. In Dari it wasn't
I think you should go now
—it was
You go!
You didn't say
Please shut the door
;
Shut door!
was perfectly acceptable.

Layla was a quick learner, soaking up new words as quickly as Kat threw them out there. Such a smart girl. How could she still be so stuck on the old ways, even over here, away from home, where nobody was watching? The three kisses thing every single time she said hello, the way she still preferred her hands over a fork. And that unibrow! Kat knew that in Afghanistan plucking your brows could only mean you were getting ready for marriage, but still. Kat often struggled to keep herself from pointing these things out to Layla, but she knew enough to keep her mouth shut. It wouldn't be polite to insult the girl. Though Layla didn't seem to have many boundaries when it came to Kat. She literally followed her around like a little puppy, taking Kat's hand in her own and forever peppering her with questions about her life. Some Kat answered. Others she left alone.

Pretty much everything was good about working on the island, except for the commute from her uncle's house in Seattle. But Sunny understood that, and had invited her to stay over whenever she wanted, which she had done a couple of times so far. Meeting Joe that first night had been a trip. He made Kat laugh, with his bushy eyebrows and big old ears, and she loved the way his arms would fly around nonstop when he talked.

And then there was Sky. She could barely think of his name without getting all goose-bumpy. Those eyes, so bright and twinkly, and those lips, so quick with a smile. He was just so damn hot, with his ripped jeans and tight T-shirts, not to mention all that metal and those awesome tats. And he was so, so sweet! He seemed like the kind of guy who would save a stranded kitten from a rooftop, or help an old lady across a busy street, or surprise a girl with a hundred roses on her birthday. She wondered if he had a girlfriend. But if he did, why did he seem to spend so much time with a loud, middle-aged woman and a random old man? Maybe she'd remain late working with Layla this afternoon, and ask to stay the night again.

The two girls followed Sunny across the lawn and through the open doors to the back of the barn. There Sunny stopped and turned with a huge grin across her face. Layla suddenly dropped to her knees and gathered a pile of bedcovers up to her nose. “Oh, Sunny jan!” she gasped between inhalations. Then she stood and danced through the maze of furniture, caressing the wood as if it were the back of a cat, squeezing the pillows close to her chest. “
Boy-e-watana maita!
” It is just like home!

“I know, right?” Sunny joined in and the two of them dove deeper into the stack, their squeals of delight binding them together like a pair of squawking blue jays.

Kat suddenly felt as though someone had kicked her in the stomach, hard. She turned and hurried out of the barn, the pounding in her ears keeping pace with the quickening rhythm of her heart. Halfway across the lawn she stopped and lowered herself down onto the thick carpet of grass, and closed her eyes against the brightening sky. In, she breathed, and out, willing herself to that place inside where she would go so often, the place that would swallow her memories whole and leave her with a mind as blank as an empty wall.

It could have been ten minutes, or it could have been thirty, before she was startled by the sound of a throat being cleared in that fake way people do to get your attention. She opened her eyes to see Sunny standing above her with a hand on her hip, her head cocked to the side.

“What?” Kat shaded her eyes with one hand.

“Don't you just love this stuff? Isn't it beautiful?” Sunny held out a string of lapis in one hand.

“It's okay, I guess.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

Kat nodded as she stood and brushed off her jeans.

“I'm sure your mother must have brought some of her own things over from home, right?”

Kat shrugged and turned away, eager to hide her eyes and the tears threatening to burst with her secrets. She hated it when she got this way, powerless against the rush of feelings that could take over in a split second. All she wanted was to be able to honor her mother by showing the same strength she had shown Kat when she brought her to America, alone, nine years ago, and that she had shown again in her fatal attempt to stand up to Kat's father, seven years later. Kat had hidden the details of the truth from everyone she knew, telling them simply
that her parents were dead. The real story was too horrifying for anyone to really understand, including herself. What kind of a world was it where a man's blame for his own problems turns into a hatred for a way of life he doesn't even try to understand, where his religious beliefs become so twisted that they push him to the point of murder?

They were five years into their life in Seattle when the day came that she and her mother had finally been granted citizenship. They stood before the judge in his chambers, her mother weeping with relief at the sound of his rubber stamp as it came pounding down onto their papers. “Finally,” she whispered to Kat, “we can have your father come join us.” Now her mother was legally eligible to apply to become the sponsor for her husband's entry into the States, just as Kat's uncle, who had lived here for close to thirty years, had done for the two of them.

Kat had been happy living with her American-born cousins in her uncle's house, a place full of life, where all the neighborhood kids would gather to watch TV or play video games or just hang out. But when her father arrived after two more years of her mother gathering the necessary paperwork and approvals, he was disgusted by what he found—a daughter with T-shirts so short they bared her ringed belly-button for all the world to see, nephews he'd never met hiding their faces under shaggy hair while displaying their underwear from the tops of their drooping jeans, and a wife with a job, a woman who would dare to talk with men other than her husband. The screaming matches between her parents were more than Kat could take, and she found herself avoiding her uncle's house as much as possible.

But it wasn't until after her father insisted they move out of “the infidel's” home that things truly became unbearable.
The three of them were now crammed into a tiny apartment, where the battles continued—her father's frustration at not being able to find a job without knowing English, his shame from having a wife who worked day and night to support the family, his unease in a world so unfamiliar to everything he knew—all of it driving him to twist his religion into a justification that vindicated, and heightened, his rage. He soon became so abusive to the two of them that Kat's mother knew the only way to protect her daughter would be to escape, with Kat, back to her brother's house, where she'd been promised their safety. From there she would figure out what to do next.

And that's where it all ended. Her mother had been found unconscious, her face and body unrecognizable beneath the charred layers of skin, the smell of gasoline unmistakable in the air. Nobody could say for sure exactly how it happened. There were no witnesses. Either a woman pushed to the limit, with suicide her only option, or a man committing a brutal crime in the name of honor. The only two people who knew the truth were now gone, one dead, the other disappearing into thin air, no doubt back to a country where murdering your wife was something you might get away with without punishment.

Now Kat wiped the backs of her wrists across her eyes and turned around to face Sunny. Maybe it had been a mistake to take this job—she should just tell Sunny she'd found something else, and couldn't come to the island anymore. Away from here she'd have more success blocking out all those reminders of a past she'd rather erase. It was her only choice, her only chance.

But Sunny was already gone, heading back to the barn, back to that junk that was so precious to her, all that crap from a place that Kat barely remembered, a place she simply could find no room for in her heart.

“
Khoda havez. Dostet daram.
” Goodbye. I love you. Yazmina blew three air kisses toward the computer screen and watched her little sister's image disappear with a click. As much as she worried about Layla, the girl seemed to be adjusting to her stay in America better than Yazmina had imagined. Maybe almost too well, she worried. When Yazmina had, just now, tried to ask Layla about a new friend she had mentioned, someone who had been trying to teach her some football, she thought she had seen the girl's cheeks redden a bit. Sky. Was that a girl's name, or a boy's? And football? What girl plays football? But even if she was playing football, Layla would know better than to have that kind of closeness with a boy, wouldn't she? It was difficult enough that she had been attending a school in Minnesota that mixed boys with girls, but this? At home, to have a boyfriend would be forbidden, at least according to traditions. Without the proper introductions, there was not
to be any communication with a boy, other than brothers or fathers. And to play football with a boy? If this were to happen in Afghanistan, Layla would be called bad names by some, or even worse than name-calling. She must think of her reputation. Yazmina worried about what Ahmet would say.

Sometimes Yazmina wished she hadn't allowed Candace to talk her into letting Layla go, especially when Ahmet would point out the outrageous behavior of the children on those American television programs. Only Halajan would laugh at those shows, and at her son's wide-eyed reaction to them, telling Ahmet not to worry so much, it is only television. It didn't help matters that the men at the mosque were always sharing with Ahmet stories about how good children go bad once they go to the States, how they forget who they are, how the boys care nothing about the girls, how they use them and trick them. Maybe she should arrange for Layla to come home sooner, before the year was up. She'd have to look into that. She sighed out loud. At least she was with Sunny now, instead of in a stranger's home. And at least,
shokr-e-khuda
, thanks to God, the girl was still wearing her
hijab
.

Yazmina leaned back on her
toshak.
How tired she felt these past few days, like a fat goat being driven mercilessly up the mountains in the middle of the summer heat. But she was grateful she didn't have to keep this one hidden from those close to her, not like with Najama, who she had carried around like a secret treasure, relying on the heavy drape of her chador to keep her pregnancy from showing. Even Ahmet had not suspected until the baby was well on her way. She couldn't help but smile picturing the two of them together, playing chase in the courtyard, Najama squealing with delight as she scurried to outrun his exaggerated stride.

And now they were about to bring another precious life into the world, to join her and Ahmet and Najama as a family.
What would this little one be called? Najama had been named in honor of her father, Najam. Yazmina thought it was a beautiful name, with a beautiful meaning.
Star lighting up the night sky
. She could think of no equivalent to Ahmet's name, should she have another girl. There were no girls names she knew of that meant
highly praised
. Of course, it might be a boy, especially if the wish she suspected Ahmet was silently holding inside came true. He would not, like some Afghan men, be shamed by the birth of a daughter, but she assumed he still clung to the traditional preference for a boy. It was a boy's role, once he became a man, to continue the family legacy, to financially support the family, and to protect the family in case of any disputes.

There were many days, she had to admit, when she also prayed it would be so, that she would give birth to a son. The handful of times she'd run into Zara in the marketplace with her mother had been enough reminder of the difficulties a daughter might face; the girl had looked so forlorn. Yazmina had whispered her offer of friendship and support into the girl's ear as they kissed in greeting, so as not to arouse the mother's suspicions. And already Yazmina worried for her own daughter Najama, for her future in a world where it seemed as though for every step a woman took she was sent back two.

Even with the new law that made violence against women a crime, Yazmina was hearing more and more stories of young women being abused and beaten by their fathers and husbands, by their teachers and mullahs. She recalled being told of a young woman in the provinces who became ill, who was taken to the mullah by her family instead of to the doctor. The mullah's cure? He advised the family to beat the evil spirits out of the girl, blaming that for the cause of her illness. It was a fact that in Afghanistan, most men still believed that the Koran allowed the
beating of a woman, but many of them had never even read the Koran. Many could not even read at all. They just listened to what the mullahs told them, which sometimes came in the kind of false words that only money could buy. She had heard Rashif talking about how the president was influenced by the religious leaders, and she worried that things could soon become even more difficult for women.

But then again, she thought as she pictured Najama's fierce green eyes, who will speak for us if we do not? This country needs strong daughters, girls who will grow into women with strong voices. Perhaps a girl would be best. And perhaps,
inshallah
, if we do have a girl, we will call her “Aarezo.”
Hope.

She slowly pushed herself up and onto her feet, dreading the morning chores that awaited downstairs in the empty coffeehouse. If only they were making enough money to hire someone to clean for her. Halajan was being of little help lately, the way she seemed to make herself scarce every time there was a job to be done. Of course she helped by watching Najama, but why couldn't she do that in the coffeehouse, instead of running around who knows where all the time? The two of them seemed to have so much fun together, in the courtyard laughing at that bossy peahen, who'd loudly and angrily cluck at anyone else, including Poppy, when they got too close. But the bird adored Najama, though the girl still didn't understand why it had no interest in chasing a ball. Well, at least things would remain quiet for a while this morning, she thought. But it was only minutes before her phone rang with the news of a visitor at the gate.

 

Yazmina hustled Zara into the empty coffeehouse and poured her some
chai
. It wasn't until the girl had removed the blue burqa
she wore that Yazmina saw how bad she looked. Her sad eyes had turned fearful, her soft cheeks hollow and drawn, each sip of her hot tea coming from a trembling cup.

“What is it,
khwaar jan
? What has happened?” Yazmina placed her hand on the girl's bare arm.

Zara sat quiet for a moment, her eyes cast downward. “I am sorry to come to you like this. I have waited, and have searched for an answer to my problems. But there doesn't seem to be one.”

“But you are taking this too harshly, little one. It is common for a girl your age to have fears about marriage. In time you will feel differently. You will forget about Omar, I promise.”

“I will never forget about Omar,” the girl snapped back, her face set with fierce determination.

Yazmina had thought a lot about this girl since her last visit. Puppy love, Halajan had called it. But still, this did not mean Zara's feelings were not real. Yes, in their world it was true that love had no place when it came to the business of marriage, that few had a right to choose in that way. Yet had not Halajan ended up eventually marrying Rashif, a love from her own youth? And had not Yazmina herself been granted the unlikely fortune of a marriage of love with Ahmet? Why must they think that this girl was wrong to feel the way she did?

Zara sat back in her chair and sighed. “But my troubles are worse than that.”

Then, as Yazmina listened without saying a word, Zara poured out the story of Faheem and his threats, leaving no detail untold. By the time she had finished, Yazmina could feel her own anger pulsing from behind her eyes.

“My heart is with you, sister. But you cannot let this situation make you ill. You look as though you've been dragged through the forest by a hungry bear.”

“I have not eaten or slept for many days now. I have barely left the house, not since the last day I went to the university.”

“You are not going to school?”

Zara shook her head. “I was there, trying to talk to Omar after class, to tell him what had happened. But before I could say anything, I noticed a man I thought I recognized from my sister's school. I think he was watching me. I feel like there are people all around who are watching me. That's why I'm wearing this.” She pointed to the bundle of blue cloth sitting in a heap on the chair beside her. “And these.” She straightened one leg and wiggled a foot swimming inside a pair of red pumps that were about two sizes too big. “They are my mother's. Perhaps I might change them with yours, so that in case someone followed me here, I won't be recognized when I leave?”

Yazmina pitied the poor girl, with her imagination playing such cruel tricks on her worried mind. Of course, there were those types of men who followed pretty girls for no reason other than to make themselves known, to be noticed by the girl. She hoped this was simply one of them.

“Although I told my mother I was going to the university today, I came here instead,” Zara continued. “I am too scared to go there. I am too scared even to talk to Omar.”

“And have you spoken of this to your father?”

Zara shook her head. “He has already delayed his answer to Faheem. But I fear what this man might do should my father dare to back away from his proposal.”

“But you must tell him!”

Zara shook her head. “You don't understand how powerful this man is, what he is capable of doing to me, to my family, to Omar. I have heard things. This is a man who uses his influence in a bad way, who trades in secrets and lies, who has the ear of
powerful people and the obligation of others to do his bidding. I will never marry a man like this, as long as I live.”

The look in Zara's eyes told Yazmina that the girl meant exactly what she said. Something had to be done. She knew all too well how quickly things could turn bad, and how sometimes it just takes one person to turn them right again. If Sunny had not taken the steps she had to return to the Women's Ministry the day after she had first seen Yazmina, to offer her a home at the coffeehouse, nothing would be as it was today. Little Najama might not have been allowed to live, and she herself could have been forced into prostitution.

She bent to pull the shoes off her swollen feet. “You must keep your head, my sister, and pray that things work out for the best. In the meantime,” she said, placing the plastic flats on the ground and pushing them toward the girl, “when you feel despair you will come talk with me. It will be our secret. You must not worry.”

Yazmina watched as the girl left through the courtyard toward the gate, her heart heavy with concern. She had no idea how to make things right for this girl, but she knew she must do something. She owed it to Sunny. She would speak to Ahmet. Perhaps he would know what to do.