Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (6 page)

“Anyone home?” The kitchen door flew open with a bang. Bear bounded in and skidded across the damp floor, leaving dark, muddy stripes in his wake.

“Damn it, dog!” Sunny yelled, dropping her mop.

“It's just me,” shouted Joe, scraping the bottoms of his moccasins against the wooden doorjamb. “But I come bearing gifts.” He placed the plastic container in his hand onto the Formica table as if it were a delicate piece of fine crystal. “Cheese!” he said, as he removed his wet jacket and draped it over a chair. “The best homemade mozzarella this side of Campania.” He kissed the tips of his fingers with a flourish. “
Mangia
.”

Sunny picked up the discarded mop and leaned it against the stove. “Really? They have a good cheese shop on this island?”

Joe laughed. “That'll be the day. No, it's my cheese.
Formaggio di Giuseppe.
For you to enjoy. Try some.” Outside the window, the grey afternoon was swiftly turning to night. Sunny reached
into a plastic shopping bag and produced first a two-pack of light bulbs, and next, a bottle of wine.

“A woman prepared for everything. Now
that
, that is something I love.” Joe offered his hand and helped her up onto the rickety chair, where she had to balance on her tiptoes in order to twist the fresh bulb into the socket. “Let there be light!” he exclaimed as he helped her back down.

“And, more importantly, let there be wine,” she added, grabbing the bottle by its neck.

“Allow me,” Joe insisted. He wrestled a red pocketknife from his jeans and sat. “So how was your day?” He flipped open a little corkscrew from the edge of the knife.

“All right, I guess. I met Rick.”

Joe lifted his eyes to see a small cloud pass over her face. “And how did that go?” he asked, piercing the cork with the sharp tip of the metal spiral.

Sunny cocked her head sideways a little. “Well, not so good. Or, rather, at least not how I had pictured. You know, Joe, I'm just not sure what to make of that guy.”

Joe hesitated, but for only a second. “Well, though it is none of my business, you know what they say.” She looked at him blankly as he pulled out the cork with a pop. “
Guardatevi dai falsi profeti
. Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, and inwardly are ravenous wolves.”

“And what's that supposed to mean, may I ask?” Sunny swatted the cat off the counter and reached for two juice glasses from the cupboard over the stove.

Joe shrugged his shoulders. “You know,” he continued before allowing her the chance to ask more, “Jack was a big fan of my cheese. First thing he'd do when he landed on the island was come knocking on my door.” Joe rapped his knuckles loudly
on the table. “‘So we meet again, my old friend,' he'd always say. Then I'd see his hungry eyes begin to scan every surface of my kitchen as if he were on one of his recon missions.” Sunny laughed as Joe brought one hand over his bushy brows and turned his gaze from counter to counter. “Ha! Yes, he was certainly a fan of my cheese. And he was also a big fan of you too, kiddo.” Sunny swallowed. He could see her chest rise and lower with a deep, silent breath. “And let me say one more thing,” he pointed toward her with the knife, cork still attached, “it's okay to feel bad about losing someone. No matter how much time has passed. A day, a year, a hundred years. Doesn't matter.” Joe paused to clear his throat. “After my Sylvia left this earth, I kept waiting for the day when my heart would no longer ache with memories, the day that would pass from morning to noon to night without a single, agonizing image of her sweet face appearing in my mind. Well, guess what?” He sat back in his chair. “It has not happened yet, and now I know it probably never will, at least not in my short future.”

Sunny remained at the sink, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder. She shook the water from the glasses and handed them to Joe.

“Life, it goes on.” He lifted the bottle and poured. “You find new things to keep you busy, new friends to help you pass the time, new ways to make yourself feel happy. And when life gives you lemons, you make wine.” Joe laughed and raised his glass. “
Cent'anni
. A hundred years. And to my new friend Sunny Tedder—may she find her heart's content.” They each took a healthy sip, then set their glasses down on the table. Joe carefully wiped the knife's blade across the leg of his jeans, peeled the top off of the plastic container, and dissected the cheese with the precision of a surgeon. Once done, he stabbed the tip of
the knife into a soft slab and offered it to Sunny with a bow of his head.

He watched as she took her first bite. “Oh. My. God,” she said, with her mouth still half full. “Are you kidding me, Joe? This is the most delicious cheese, no, the most delicious
thing
, that I have ever tasted.” Her shoulders seemed to relax for the first time since he had met her, making her neck appear to grow inches longer than before. Sunny helped herself to more, her eyes slipping shut as she savored the milky treat. Suddenly they both jumped at the sound of a car door slamming outside.

“Company!” said Joe with glee as he scraped back his chair and struggled to stand. “Now who could that be?” He shuffled to the door and opened it to find Sky shaking off the rain like a dog fresh from a bath. Joe and the skinny young man embraced each other in a part hug, part handshake, part pat on the back, an elaborate ritual that ended with a fist bump, a routine they'd clearly perfected over time. “I tell you, one day my eyeglasses are gonna get caught in those things, and you, young man, you're going to cry like a baby,” said Joe, pointing to the gaping holes in the boy's earlobes, stretched into shape by a pair of metal grommets. Joe rubbed at his own saggy earlobes, just imagining the pain.

Sunny and Sky greeted each other with a little hug of their own, looking like long-lost siblings with their matching mops of curly brown hair. “You know,” said Joe, pointing out the window toward the darkening sky, “I just thought of it. Perhaps you two meeting is an omen. Sunny, Sky!” He laughed at his own joke as the two of them groaned. Joe pinched the front pockets of his shirt between his index fingers and thumbs and pulled the fabric away from his body, flapping his arms a little to dispel the dampness left by Sky's wet jacket. Then he cleared his throat.
“So tell me, Sky. What on God's green earth could you be doing here on a night like this?”

Sky shot him a confused look, which Joe answered with a swift jerk of the head toward Sunny, who was busy helping herself to more cheese.

“Oh,” Sky finally responded. “Well, you see, I was just on my way home from my bartending job at The Dirty Monkey, and I saw the lights on from the bottom of the hill, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right with the house.” He turned to Joe for approval. “And you're still here, Sunny?”

“Missed the ferry.” She held up two fingers. “Twice.”

Sky nodded his head slowly up and down.

“Sit, sit. Please,” Sunny said as if she had just remembered she was in her own house. She stood and rushed toward her new guest to help him with his jacket, piling it on top of the already soggy mess that was Joe's. The two men sat as she returned to the paper bag on the counter. “My breakfast,” she explained a little sheepishly as she lifted out a can of Mountain Dew and a box of Frosted Flakes. “And my dinner,” she added, revealing a box of Triscuits, a jar of pickles, and a large bar of chocolate, which she artfully arranged on a couple of plates that she set down on the table next to Joe's cheese. Another glass was rinsed before she finally joined them. “Please,” she said, filling Sky's glass. “Enjoy. Happy to have the company.”

Joe watched Sunny's actions with a smile on his face.

“So how long will you be staying on the island?” Sky asked Sunny, the little silver bead hanging in front of his teeth sparkling with every word.

“I wasn't planning on staying at all.”

“Well you should!” he answered with the enthusiasm of the boy he was. “There's so much to do. Fishing, hiking, skydiving,
kayaking, paddle-boarding …” Sunny's expression remained frozen as the two men waited for her reaction. “Art galleries, boutiques?” Sky tried. Nothing. “And in the summer, it stays light forever. Like Norway. Hey, and the car show is next week!”

Joe helped himself to some more wine. “Sky is a one-man Chamber of Commerce. He should run for mayor.”

“He reminds me a little of someone else,” Sunny said, flashing Joe a subtle smile.

“I've lived here all my life,” Sky continued. “Well, practically all my life. My parents moved us up here from Los Angeles when I was little. I wouldn't live anywhere else. Maybe for a little while for school, but that's about it.”

“Sky is right,” Joe agreed. “It is a beautiful island. Oh, and I almost forgot, we found your other key. The one to the barn.” He nodded at Sky, who dug it out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Sunny. Joe watched as she zipped it into the pocket of her down vest. She reached for the bottle and topped off their glasses. This was good. Tomorrow—tomorrow he'd bring her a warm loaf of bread and a jar of his red sauce.

The vendors were already at work setting up their folding tables in the courtyard as the morning sun climbed its way into the cloudless Kabul sky. On the street, a jumble of vans and carts and taxis and cars were unloading bins and piles of goods, as both men and women approached with heavy bundles over their shoulders, dragging behind them the plastic chairs that would provide some relief throughout the long day of commerce. How the little bazaar had grown since they first started offering weekly space to those whose businesses had been hurt so badly by the restrictions imposed by the international organizations that would no longer allow their people to shop on Chicken Street, designating it as yet one more dangerous place in Kabul that was off-limits. But here, behind the safety of the high walls topped with razor wire, under the watchful eyes of the coffeehouse's two
chokidors
, everyone was allowed to shop to their heart's content, in turn allowing the vendors, along with Ahmet
and his family, to bring in a few more dollars to help make ends meet.

Yazmina greeted the women who appeared with their arms heavy with scarves and jewelry, and helped them arrange the cloths for covering their tables and string the clotheslines that would be used to display their wares. “
Salaam alaikum
,” she repeated to each of them, after the customary three kisses on their cheeks. “How are you? How is your health? How is your family?”

Bashir Hadi was busy setting up his own table, where the coffeehouse favorites that Sunny had taught him to make—brownies, peanut-butter-and-chocolate-chip cookies, date bars—would sell like hot cakes. He hoped they would go particularly fast today, he had told them this morning, as he was anxious to get home to where his wife, Sharifa, was working all day to prepare the special dish of
mantu
for the family. He could practically feel the little pockets of ground beef exploding in his mouth already, the mint and garlic sweet and tangy on the tip of his tongue.

Ahmet stopped briefly to check in with Daoud, who was standing tall and firm by the coffeehouse gate, his eyes continuously scanning the busy courtyard like a beacon at sea. After the
chokidor
assured him that everything was running smoothly, Ahmet slicked back his hair and began his weekly rounds, sharing his own greetings with the eager men laying out their smooth lidded boxes, and the others hanging their heavy woven rugs. Against the far wall, a string of women's dresses caught his eye, sparkling under the sun like a rainbow. Even from where he stood, Ahmet could recognize the good quality, but these dresses were nowhere near as beautiful as the ones his Yazmina had created, by hand, for Sunny and her friends, and later for some of the wealthy Afghans who had clamored for her designs,
back when the child and the coffeehouse had not taken up so much of her time.

He watched as his wife stood admiring a tableful of handmade dolls dressed in miniature embroidered dresses and
hijab
, with long, dark stitched lashes shooting out from their almond eyes like the rays of the sun. Like little Yazminas, he thought, suddenly struck by the glow that seemed to be surrounding her like the halo of an angel, that warm light that comes only from a woman with child.

It wasn't long before the courtyard began to fill with the foreigners who showed up each week, strolling the perimeter, fingering the beads and admiring the chunky bracelets of silver and lapis, testing the strength of the wing-shaped kites, their obvious hunger for a bargain matched by the vendors' eagerness for a sale. Ahmet knew it would be a good day. He rubbed his hands together and smiled, and headed across the courtyard to escort Yazmina back inside the café, where she could sit and get some rest. How excited he was for this child, so much so that he sometimes felt the urge to shout his joy from the rooftop. But of course, out of honor and modesty, he would not share the news of Yazmina's condition with anyone, not until her belly became obvious through the heaviest of clothing, leaving him no choice. For in Afghanistan, to discuss a wife's pregnancy was to acknowledge engaging in the act that made it so, and that was something just not discussed. Outside the family, only Bashir Hadi had been told, and that was only because Ahmet did not want his wife working too hard.

By late morning Ahmet could see that things in the courtyard were starting to wind down. Only the most serious shoppers remained, their hands heavy with plastic bags, and a few of the vendors had started packing up.

“
Khob asti laalaa
?” How are you, big brother?

Ahmet turned to see his young friend Omar, surprised by both his presence at the coffeehouse on a Friday and by the traditional
perahan tunban
he wore, instead of the usual jeans he chose for their classes and meetings on weekdays.

“Hello, my friend, to you as well.” The two men embraced and clasped each other's hands in greeting.

“I've come to buy some of your delicious cookies for my family, but they are already gone. Next week I will have to get here earlier.”

“Well, it is good to see you anyway.” Ahmet nodded toward the coffeehouse door. Omar headed inside and straight to his usual table by the wall, near the back. Ahmet followed with two cups of hot
chai
. “So,” he asked as he pulled up a chair and sat, “how are your studies going?”

“Very well, thank you. Although sometimes it's difficult, with my duties at my uncle's shop, and my other job at Roshan selling phones.”

“Yes,” Ahmet answered, his eyes taking in the coffeehouse. “I understand.”

“I'm sure you do,” Omar agreed.

“Ah, but we're lucky, are we not?”

“That we are, my friend.” Omar blew lightly on the surface of his tea. “That we are.”

Ahmet crossed his legs. “There are many good people there at the university,” he ventured, attempting to remain casual with his stream of talk.

“Many.”

“And many pretty girls, am I right?”

Omar nodded.

“By the way,” he said as he raised his cup toward his lips, “my mother tells me there was one who came by here yesterday, looking for you. Tall, silky hair, light complexion …”

Omar's eyes lit up a little. Ahmet raised his eyebrows and took a sip of the steaming liquid. Omar quickly composed himself, and sat up straight in his chair. “Perhaps it was my classmate Zara. We are working on a project together, and I missed her in class yesterday, because of my job.”

“Well she must have missed you too. Apparently she was anxious to speak with you. This must be a difficult project.”

“Yes, yes. Quite difficult.”

“Apparently.”

The two men sipped in silence for a moment.

“So you will be able to work it out, this project, after the weekend?”

“I hope so,” said Omar with a sigh.

“So this Zara, she does not need to come looking for you at the coffeehouse again?”

Omar shifted in his seat, his cheeks reddening a bit at the mention by somebody else of the girl's name. Ahmet couldn't help but think about how uncomfortable he had once been because of his own feelings for Yazmina, how the mere sight of her slender wrists would cause him to become weak in his knees and forget his duties, how his thoughts of her had challenged everything he thought he knew about the way things must go between a man and a woman. And now, how happy he was to have her as his wife, to look straight into her deep green eyes without fear or shame, to lay down next to her smooth, warm body at the end of each day. He felt sorry for the young man in front of him. But still, there were customs that had to be followed.

He cleared his throat before he spoke. “I'm sure her parents would not be happy to know of your Zara coming to see you outside of school.”

“She is not ‘my' Zara,” Omar answered quickly, too quickly to be believed. “And I'm sure her parents are aware that she is working on a project. That is all.”

“You must be careful to respect our ways, Omar. Nothing good can come out of a relationship where the parents don't approve.”

“I understand that, my friend.” The boy dug in his pocket for a buzzing phone. Ahmet winced, knowing that in a good family, an unmarried girl with a phone in her hand was something a parent would rather not see. And if a girl was found to be texting or talking with a boy, well, the shame that could bring on the family would bear some serious consequences.

“Just be careful, little brother. Our world may be changing, but some traditions must still be respected. You must go about things in the proper way, for the sake of all. You cannot jeopardize your future, nor Zara's.”

Omar shook his head. “Don't worry about me, big brother.” He tightened the ends of his checkered
keffiyeh
around his neck. “Life is good. And with a little luck, it will only get better.”

“
Inshallah
,” Ahmet responded.

“
Inshallah
,” Omar echoed.

After seeing his friend out the door, Ahmet poured himself another cup of
chai
and sat back down to rest for a moment. The conversation had troubled him, bringing up thoughts and emotions old and new, making him feel as though his mind was being twisted and turned and tossed around like one of Poppy's rubber dog toys. He thought of his wife's sister Layla, who was not much younger than this girl, Zara, must be. What will it be like when she returns from America and goes herself to the university? He could only hope that the girl would have enough sense, and enough pride, to not get mixed up in this sort of situation.

He remembered how incensed he had been just a few years before when he had discovered that his own mother had been receiving letters from Rashif, to whom she had not yet been married. A widow, an old woman, trading in words like that.
You are my dearest
, one letter had said.
My loved one is a mile away and yet a lifetime
, read another. But, really, had any harm been done? Hadn't Rashif come forward like a gentleman to ask Ahmet's permission to marry his mother? And to see how those two were together, like a pair of lovestruck teenagers. It was as if their relationship was always meant to be. If only he could understand better, if only these things were made clearer. He sighed and rubbed his hands up and down his forehead, as if that might help make it so. But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of
azzaan
calling for
Jummah
prayer, so he buried the debate away for another day, and instead concentrated on rushing to the mosque to join the rest of the congregation in their Friday ritual.