Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (3 page)

Again a silent no.

“Well then, what could be so bad to make you appear as though you're carrying the weight of a hundred bricks across your shoulders?”

The girl remained silent, her eyes turned toward the ground.

“Do not be ashamed that you came here,” Yazmina assured her. “I understand how difficult things can get sometimes. If there is something I can do to help you—”

Yazmina could see the girl's lower lip start to tremble before she spoke. “It is my parents,” she said, her words rushing out like water from a spigot. “I know they are arranging a marriage for me. I saw two women pay a call on my mother. I hear my uncles and aunts talking. I know the proposal to my father will come soon.”

“But that is a
good
thing,
khwaar jan
,” Yazmina assured her. “You are not a child. This is the proper way. Do not be afraid.”

“I'm not afraid.” The girl wiped away a tear with the back of her sleeve.

“Well, what is it then? Are your parents not good parents, do they not want a good life for you?”

“Yes, they are good parents. I love my parents. And I do not wish to disobey or dishonor them.”

“So what is the problem?” Yazmina brushed strands of the girl's long silky hair away from her face with her fingers.

“I don't want to be married,” Zara answered, a little too adamantly.

Yazmina nodded slowly. “Ah. It is because the man is mean? Or old? Or ugly?”

The girl shook her head. “I do not know yet who the man is.”

“So perhaps he is a good man. Like my Ahmet.”

The girl hesitated slightly before finding her answer. “But I want to study.”

Yazmina nodded, and tried to imagine herself in this girl's position. She was married at fifteen to her childhood friend Najam. There had been no questions in her mind, no thoughts of studies up in the mountains of Nuristan. She had been happy in her marriage until the day Najam had died, killed before he even had a chance to see his daughter Najama come into the world. But life was different here in Kabul, and the rules seemed to change with every passing wind.

“Perhaps your parents will understand,” she suggested.

The girl shook her head. “Not this time. This man is a wealthy man. His mother arrived with a servant, in a big car. My parents have turned away offers that have come before, but I know this one is different. I hear my family whispering, I see my aunts and uncles looking at me as if I were a prized sheep picked for sale at the bazaar.”

“It is clear your parents are caring. They are choosing well for you.”

Yazmina saw Zara's shoulders suddenly heave. “But my heart belongs to someone else,” she confessed, with a sob so loud it echoed off the courtyard walls.

Omar, Yazmina thought to herself. Halajan was right. She embraced the girl and held her trembling body close. “Quiet now. You must calm yourself. This is not the end of the world.” She could practically feel the girl's pain shooting out from beneath her skin. But still she must do what was right.

“You need to stay away from this boy,” she said softly into the girl's ear, which only made her cry more. “It is the way things are done, little one. We all know that. It is tradition.”

But tradition or not, for now this girl was suffering. Perhaps Yazmina could not do much to change the situation, but what she could do was offer her friendship. She knew all too well how it was to feel helpless and alone.

She waited for Zara's cries to subside, then took her hand and walked her to the gate. “Be strong,
khwaar jan
,” she said with a hug. “Sometimes things work out in ways you could never imagine. But if you need me, I am here for you. Remember that.” The girl quietly thanked her, furled the burqa up into the air and over her head, and left.

Back inside the coffeehouse, Yazmina hurried to hug Najama. She prayed her daughter would never have reason to feel as sorrowful as that poor girl did, but who knows what life might bring? She was worried for Najama's future, especially now, when everything around them seemed so uncertain.

Halajan had returned to her chores. “You worry too much. That girl will be fine. The children these days, they are full of drama. Everything is a crisis. This is a matter of puppy love, you will see. Getting involved in others' troubles will only bring us trouble,” the old woman said. “And trouble,” she continued as she stroked the wall beside her to ward off bad luck, “is the last thing we need in this place.”

The wheels of the rental car spun fruitlessly in the mud as Sunny made a left turn onto the steep driveway. She turned off the ignition and sighed, relieved to no longer be driving. The twenty-minute trip from the ferry landing had felt more like an hour, the pines obscuring the view on both sides, hemming her in like giant wooden prison bars. If there was a soul to be seen living behind that curtain of green, she sure couldn't spot them. Only two cars had passed her after she made the first turn up the hill, one a battered truck with lumber hanging out of the back, the other a Subaru with bikes on top. A faded directional sign, similar to those she had seen along the road that seemed to be pointing to nowhere, showed the way up the drive to the house, but it was clear that the only way to go would be by foot. Sunny glanced down and said a quick goodbye to her grey suede Uggs, shut the car door behind her, and began the hike up between the gnarly vines, cursing Jack every step of the way. She
stopped only briefly to catch her breath and shake her head at an abandoned firetrap of a barn halfway up, and then continued, the wet ground providing a thwacky percussive soundtrack with each step she took. It reminded her of her least favorite season in Kabul, when the winter rains would turn the muddy, flooded streets into a navigational nightmare, and the thick sludge would seep in through every crack and crevice imaginable.

At the crest of the hill, a rickety mongrel of a house stood framed by a dull midday sun that was still struggling to be seen from behind the clouds. Sunny narrowed her eyes and cocked her head sideways at the structure. What the hell was it? Raised Ranch? Cape Cod Classic? Mid-Century Monstrosity? The place looked like a poorly constructed jigsaw puzzle, with every piece jammed together regardless of size or shape or color. It was all disintegrating shingles, lopsided angles, and a front porch straight out of
The Waltons
. She stood in disbelief, hands on hips. “Hello?” she called out in her booming voice, hoping that Rick, after getting her message that she'd arrive around midday, might be there to meet her. But of course nobody answered.

She had just started back down the driveway when she heard someone call out from behind her. “Hey! Hold on! Hello! Wait!” She turned to see a skinny young man in ripped jeans and rubber boots rushing toward her. “Can I help you?” he shouted across the soggy lawn.

“I don't know,” she shouted back.

“Sky,” he said as he came to a halt in front of her and wiped his palms on his jeans.

Sunny smiled politely and squinted toward the clouds above.

“Sky,” he repeated, holding out his hand. “That's my name.”

“Oh!” She held out her own hand. “Sunny.”

The boy raised two pierced eyebrows.

“No, that's me. My name is Sunny.”

“Of course,” he laughed, revealing a metal stud glistening in front of his teeth. “My bad. I should've known. Nice to meet you.” He clasped her hand between his own tattoo-covered ones and shook. “You just got here?”

“I did. I told Rick I was coming. Maybe he didn't get the message.” Sunny's eyes wandered from the barn to the house and back again. This was so not what she had imagined, not even on her worst days.

“Well, you want to look around?” the young man asked eagerly, shifting from foot to foot.

“Don't have the key.”

“No worries. Nobody on the island locks their doors.”

She followed him as he trotted toward the house, admiring how his long, shiny brown curls bounced with every step he took.
To be that young and lovely
, the forty-two-year-old in her thought, struggling to keep up.

“But if you do want a key,” Sky said as he reached the back door and bent to lift up a worn straw mat, “here's our secret hiding place.”

“That's original,” she said with a smirk as she tucked the key into the back pocket of her jeans.

The ripped screen door screamed in protest as Sky pulled it open and stepped aside to allow her to enter. They were in the kitchen; at least, she assumed it was the kitchen from the slight glow coming from the green phosphorescent hands of the frozen clock on the electric stove. The room was so dark she could barely make out the shape of the old Frigidaire in the corner, with its rounded corners and hinged handle. Sky flipped the switch by the door, but nothing happened. “Sorry,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I've been meaning to bring in some light bulbs.”

As Sunny's vision began to adjust to the dimness she was able to take in more. The dead flies legs-up on the windowsills. The crusty glasses in the sink. Sky watched silently as she took a sorry inventory.
Thank God Jack isn't with me
was her first thought, trying to imagine the lengths she'd have to go to in order to cover her disappointment with this place. There was no way she could be that good an actor.

“My bad again,” said Sky, bowing his head a little. “I would have cleaned the place up a little if I knew you were coming.”

“You work for Rick?”

“Oh, no.” Sky drew back his chin and shook his head a little. “Haven't seen that guy in ages. He lives all the way up island, near the military base. It's Jack I do work—I mean, used to do work—for. Just keeping an eye on things for him, stuff like that. Really great guy.”

The sadness that had been shadowing her for the past few months suddenly tightened its grip. Sunny swallowed and struggled to blink back the tears that she knew held more power than she did. Sky lowered his eyes, then politely turned away to pretend to fiddle with the light switch. Sunny stood in place, concentrating on her breathing. “Yeah, pretty great,” she finally managed to utter, the three words coming out in a little croak.

Sky turned around and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “We all miss him, you know.”

Sunny nodded, envious of this boy's memories of Jack on this island when she had none. If only she could have pictured his head bent over the newspaper at the kitchen table, or remembered his crackly laugh bouncing off these walls, maybe it all might have felt different.

She dragged herself through the kitchen door toward the rest of the house. The bedrooms and bath told pretty much the same
story as the kitchen did. Dingy sheets covering the sparse furniture, a moldy shower curtain, rusty faucets, a peeling linoleum floor, and a plastic bucket half filled with stale, brackish rainwater perched on top of the toilet lid. The whole place had the aura of an old sepia photograph, all brown and yellow and dark, and Sunny found herself practically holding her breath as she passed from room to room.

The living room seemed slightly more promising. At least it was big enough for entertaining, if one was so inclined. Which she wasn't. She ran her fingers along the slats of the dirty white shutters that lined one entire wall of the room, and plopped herself down on the worn couch, where she was greeted with a cloud of dust up her nose. “
Achoo!
” she sneezed once, then again, and then five more times in a row, as was her way. Waving away the multiple blessings Sky was politely offering, she returned to the kitchen for a tissue from her purse, and checked her messages. Still no word from Rick. She circled the room until she finally found a spot where one little bar appeared on her phone, and hurried to send a message to the number he had given her.
It's Sunny. I'm here, but won't be for long. Call me.
God, how she wanted this day to be over.

But when she returned to the living room Sunny let out a gasp so loud you could have heard it all the way back on the mainland. Sky laughed. He'd unhooked the shutters, revealing one of the most stunning views Sunny had seen in her entire life. The sun had made a brief appearance above, and below, the turquoise waters of Puget Sound shimmered like a sequined evening gown.

She had to admit, for one quick moment, that Jack's description of the beauty of the Sound, at least when the sun shone, had been spot on. She'd give him that. But still, what had made
him think she'd actually want to make a life here? For one thing, it was way too quiet, except for what was beginning to sound like a crazy woman on a rant next door. And for another thing, it was too wet. And woodsy. And isolated. What had he been thinking? She rubbed her temples, trying her damnedest to wrap her head around this place, to see what Jack saw, besides that view. And why wouldn't that woman stop screaming, for God's sake?

Her answer came in the form of a frantic peahen hustling a trail of little ones across the lawn. The worried mama circled around her chicks like a tightly wound-up toy. But the sound Sunny heard wasn't coming from her. It came from the branches of a maple tree, where the peahen's peacock mate was screeching out a full-scale warning to the barking ball of matted fur loping toward his family at breakneck speed. A fat orange cat lay in wait by the bushes, licking his chops.

Sky rapped on the window with his knuckles. “Bear! Bad dog! Leave it!”

Sunny covered her eyes but watched through spread fingers as the birds scurried away and the cat slithered under the porch. That's when she saw an ancient Asian man in a faded baseball cap waving a crooked stick in the air with one hand while flinging handfuls of dust right and left with the other. He looked like a demented fairy godmother as he crossed the property at the rate of a tortoise, either belting a song or arguing with himself, Sunny couldn't tell which.

“That's your next-door neighbor,” Sky said.

Sunny followed him outside, skirting the puddles that were blending into one giant lake across the soggy grass. Sky joined his hands in front of his chest and made a slight bow. “
Youkoso irasshai mashita
.”

The man stood there silently under the tree, hat in hand, slowly turning his stony gaze to Sunny, who frantically and awkwardly bent down, replicating Sky's gesture. You have got to be kidding me, she thought as she took in the sight of this strange man, from his miraculously spotless brown moccasins to his denim-on-denim outfit to his cropped full head of white hair. When she finally straightened to find herself eye to eye with him, the smooth, unlined face behind the wire-rimmed glasses surprised her. Not a single wrinkle, except for those ears. The two lobes hung long and low, and to Sunny looked like a couple of sheets of paper someone had crumpled up only to later realize they were something that was actually needed. And those eyebrows! You could practically braid them up and twist them into little buns they were so long and thick.

“
Benvenuti in paradiso
,” the old man said loudly, gently taking her hand and raising it to his dry warm lips. “I am Giuseppe,” he added, the three words tinged with an accent Sunny couldn't quite pinpoint. “Around here, just Joe.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, surprised by this Japanese guy's Italian but relieved at his English. It had been starting to feel like her early days at the coffeehouse, when the confusing jumble of tongues had made her brain spin like a top. “Sunny.”

He turned and tilted his ear toward her mouth.

“Sunny!” she repeated, louder this time.

“Ah, that I know,” he nodded. “The remarkable Sunny Tedder, straight from Jonesboro, Arkansas via Kabul, Afghanistan and other points unknown. And you are even more
bellissima
than I ever imagined.” Joe scattered the remains of his birdseed across the lawn and tossed the stick into the air for the dog.

She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. “Nice dog you've got there,” was the only response she could think of, this time delivered at a volume equal to his.

“My dog? Bear? Oh no.” He shook his snowy head. “Not my dog. Your dog. Jack sprung him from the shelter a ways back. I've just been watching him. He's a good dog, aren't you, Bear-boy?” he yelled toward the dog, who was too busy turning the stick into a pile of toothpicks to answer. “He's quite a scoundrel, that dog. I tell you, once he—”

“And the cat?” Sunny squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose, not sure she really wanted to hear his answer.

Joe nodded. “Sangiovese? Yours as well.”

“Typical Jack,” she muttered out loud, her shoulders dropping with annoyance.

The old man wagged a gnarled finger in her face. “
A caval donato non si guarda in bocca.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, they say. Or a cat, for that matter.”

Oh no, she thought. Not another Halajan, with the quotes. Joe's shameless cackling at his own joke quickly turned into a hacking cough. She grabbed his arm and gently patted the back of his worn blue shirt.

“Don't be fooled by this one's charm,” Sky warned. “He's a tough old bird. Before you know it he'll be getting you to bring him his newspapers and clean his house for him.”

“Not to worry. I'm not planning on staying here.”

Either Joe didn't hear her, or pretended not to. “Young man, you give away my secrets,” he chided. “I suppose you've also already spilled the beans about our little project.” He lowered himself slowly onto a wooden bench surrounding the maple, patting the spot beside him as an invitation for Sunny to sit, which she did. At the bottom of the sloping lawn, the Sound stretched out like a smooth, welcoming blanket, as if it were a totally different body of water than the choppy dark sea she had crossed just an hour before. She checked her watch. Only about
two hours left to connect with Rick before she had to catch the last ferry out. But Joe had embarked on some long story to which she'd barely been listening.

“Of course,” he was saying, “all of the winemakers on the island buy their grapes from the mainland. The vines you see in front of their places? Mostly for show.”

“Wait, what? You mean nobody makes wine on this island?” Sunny thought she must have misheard the old man.

“Oh, they make wine,” Sky, crouching down on his haunches in front of them, explained. “They just don't grow their own grapes. It's too difficult here, in this weather, on this land.”