Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (8 page)

The warm smell of baking bread greeted Halajan as she headed down Qala-e-Fatullah road toward the string of colored bulbs blinking in the dawn light. “
Salaam alaikum
,” she said to Fattanah, who sat behind the open shopfront window handing out slabs of golden flatbread to a dwindling line of hungry customers.

“
Wa alaikum as salaam
,” the woman answered back, her gaptoothed smile always a welcome sight. Over her shoulder Halajan could see a handful of cross-legged women on the bakery's raised floor, silhouetted by the brick oven's glow, their sleeves rolled up high on their sturdy arms as they weighed and kneaded and pounded and rolled the lumps of floury dough into the long oval discs she picked up early every morning for the coffeehouse. Back when Sunny was there the bread had been the hard French kind that all the foreigners seemed to like so much, delivered from Carte Se, a whole forty-five minute
drive away. But Halajan, she preferred Fattanah's soft, chewy
naan
, and also preferred to pay her money to these women who worked so hard to support their children. She'd never forget the day the Taliban shut down the widows' bakeries, where bread was baked by women left without male relatives to support them, to be sold to other women like them at a price they could afford. Even though bakeries run by women had a long tradition in Afghanistan, under the Taliban the only jobs women were allowed—in women's hospitals, women's prisons, or at the security checkpoints in airports—were those made necessary by the Taliban's own rule, the one that forbade non-related men and women from mixing. The bakeries had been a lifeline for many desperate women, the only thing keeping their families from starvation. For a while the Taliban let them be, but it wasn't long before the women endured threats and beatings that came with orders to shut their businesses down. But now the bakeries were back, and though this one sold bread to everyone, Fattanah made it a point to hire widows to do her baking.

She thanked Fattanah as she exchanged her coins for a stack of
naan
taken fresh from the fire on a long wooden paddle, and headed back home where, behind the bright turquoise gate and the towering wall, everything was still quiet. Only Bashir Hadi was visible to her through the windows as she crossed the patio to the coffeehouse's front door.

“
Salaam
.”

“
Sob bakhair
. Good morning to you, Halajan.” He paused and propped his mop against a chair, the low morning sunlight bouncing off the wet floors. “Let me take that from you.”

Halajan handed him the bundle of bread she'd carried wrapped in a bleached-out head scarf, and started down the hallway toward the back door, just as she did every morning,
her plastic shoes clack-clacking on the marble tiles and Poppy trailing close behind, just as
she
did every morning. In the privacy of the tiny courtyard, Halajan untied her head scarf and leaned back against the concrete wall, her wrinkled face turned toward the sky. Poppy groaned and stretched out in a sunny corner to warm her aching bones.

“You and me both, girl. We're not as young as we used to be.” Halajan remembered the day Jack delivered Poppy to the coffeehouse. She had screamed. But, as usual, Jack had done a good thing. Poppy had earned her weight in gold just from being by Sunny's side, and now by keeping a wary eye on all those who entered the coffeehouse, as rheumy as those eyes were. Halajan missed Jack, so handsome, so tall, like a movie star. And so brave, the way he swooped in to rescue Layla when she was in danger of being taken from her home in the mountains, just as her sister Yazmina had been. But what she loved most about Jack was how he made her laugh, the way he'd say things to her about Sunny—right in front of her face—in the rapid-fire Dari that Sunny could never understand. And Sunny, too, she missed. Sure they'd fought like cats and dogs, and Sunny could be so annoying with that laugh that was as loud as the horn of a truck stuck in traffic, but still. Like they say,
there is a way from heart to heart
. And it was true. After all they had been through together, they had become as close as family. Not to mention the credit Sunny deserved for all the improvements she had made on this house Halajan had rented to her for her café. The three humming generators drowning out all signs of life around her were proof of Sunny's determination. If they had remained out in the front courtyard where they had been, the coffeehouse never would have had the success it did.

She hitched up the elastic waist of her sagging blue jeans and reached deep into the pocket of her long sweater, feeling around for the hard metal tube Sunny's American friend Candace had given her the last time she had passed through Kabul. An electric cigarette. Whoever thought of such a thing? But Candace had urged Halajan to give it a try, thinking it might help her quit her secret habit. Halajan had no desire to stop smoking, but Candace had also mentioned that since there would be no smoke, there would be no evidence, and that made some sense to her. Her insides filled with the fruity vapor as she took her first drag of the day, the sight of the fake orange glow at the tip of cylinder almost making her laugh out loud. Next time she'd try to remember to put her Marlboros back in her pocket.

Candace. Halajan shook her head just thinking of the woman. There was another one who at first had made her hackles rise like an angry cock. Even Sunny hadn't seemed to like her much when they first met in Kabul, until they found out they were both from the southern part of their country, perhaps, Halajan thought, the same tribe. But Candace had changed, no longer the Princess Candace who used to charge into the coffeehouse in her high heels and bangled arms, demanding the best table, tossing her fancy coat carelessly at whoever was standing guard by the door. From what Halajan could see, Candace had become a more serious person, one who had learned how to put her big mouth and deep pockets to work for people who had neither voice nor money. Halajan marveled at the way that woman could make things happen like magic, like conjuring up an instant throng of customers clamoring for Yazmina's designs after she saw how clever the girl was with a needle. And like pulling the tangled strings of Afghan bureaucracy to give Yazmina's sister Layla the gift of a stay in America. But also the things she did
for people she didn't even know, finding the money needed for food and supplies and bribes to help women in prison for what they call moral crimes—the crimes of refusing to be forced into sex with those who have paid for it, for being victims of rape or of abusive husbands—women imprisoned for making their own decisions in personal matters. Her latest work was creating a network of safe houses to help those who had managed to get out of prison, and for those in danger of being put in one. Halajan always looked forward to hearing what Candace was up to, and was glad her work brought her through Kabul so often.

The shadows from the branches of the pomegranate tree in the center of the concrete courtyard grew shorter as the sun rose in the morning sky. By now the tree struggled to bear fruit, and what little it did manage to produce was small and sour. The tree had to be as old has Halajan herself, growing tall in this spot from the days when the property was just an empty lot, a place where she and Rashif would play as children. How could they have ever imagined, back then, where their lives would take them? It had been no surprise, so long ago, that their young love was not meant to be, and that they had both been married off to others by their families. But finding each other again after so many years, after they had each been widowed, was almost a miracle. Six years they spent with barely a word between them—even the slightest acknowledgment in public was strictly forbidden by tradition—the only communication written in ink on the pages of the letters Rashif slipped into her hand every Thursday at his shop in the
Mondai-e
. She'd quickly hide the envelopes in the folds of her chador—if the letters fell into the wrong hands there would be a terrible shame brought upon her family. Her collection grew to hundreds of letters, all remaining unread until the day Yazmina innocently came across
one of them, and then discovered Halajan's other secret: Halajan couldn't read. She smiled now, just thinking of the words she'd first heard in Yazmina's voice.
I am dreaming of seeing your eyes
, Rashif had written, and had called her
my dear
, always signing off with
Love, your Rashif
. And now they were married. That, she thought, was the true miracle. It was the influence of Rashif himself, and the love of Yazmina, that had lured her son Ahmet off his strict traditionalist path, opening the door for Rashif to become her husband. For in Afghanistan, a woman whose husband dies leaving her with a son can only remarry if her son, the eldest male member of the family, arranges it.

And that had been just the beginning of the changes in Ahmet. Before Rashif and Yazmina had come into his life, it seemed as though his only ambition had been to remain as the
chokidor
for the coffeehouse. Halajan had encouraged him over and over to become something bigger, to go to Germany, perhaps, to join his older sister Aisha at the university there. But Ahmet had made it his mission to protect and take care of her, like the good Afghan son he thought he should be. How proud she was that he was now finally going to the university here in Kabul, and even prouder that he was starting to open his eyes, and his heart, to a world beyond that of the fundamentalists.

Yes, she thought as she stopped herself from instinctively tossing the false cigarette to the ground to crush it out under her shoe, all in all life was pretty good. She still worried about the future of her country, and what it might bring to the lives of her family, but not too deep inside she felt the stirrings of hope. For she knew that in Afghanistan, though nothing was easy, nothing was impossible either.

There were days when Sunny thought that the spectacular view she had seen through the living room windows that first day on the island had been a mirage. Joe had told her to be patient, although, of course, his advice was delivered via an Italian proverb and an endless explanation that followed. It was true that sometimes, if you sat still long enough and were lucky enough to be at the window at exactly the right moment, you might catch a quick peek of the snow-capped mountain across the water before it would disappear again behind the fog. But that was about it.

Patience. Sometimes Sunny thought she'd skipped straight from chaos to inertia, without ever stopping for the patience phase. There were days when she felt as though her entire self was being tested by the situation with Rick. He wasn't budging, sticking firmly to his notion that the place should be held onto in honor of Jack and his dream. Yet he still refused to
accept Sunny's offer for her half of the property, even though she'd caved a little and dropped her asking price by a tad as an incentive.

She leaned back into the couch and dug deep into a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Bear lifted his head and eyed the spoonful with longing. This dog must eat better than I do, it occurred to her, remembering the little plastic bags of roasted chicken and rice Joe had left with her when he'd dropped Bear off for the day, claiming he had something he needed to do, although she couldn't imagine what. There
wasn't
anything to do in this damn place. Even Sangiovese, the cat, looked bored, his tongue scraping rhythmically across its paws in an endless, needless bathing ritual.

She didn't even want to think about how long she'd let herself stay on the island. The days just seemed to pass, and she'd wake each morning still there. Doing nothing. Nothing to do. She had tried, one Tuesday when it hadn't looked too damp out, to take a walk, hoping it might help clear her head a little. She'd stood frozen at the bottom of the driveway, her eyes turning left, right, left, then back again, each direction reflecting a mirror image of the other, with nothing but a flat, dark corridor of thick pines stretching out as far as she could see. She finally chose a left, for no particular reason, and began to walk.

At first it had been okay, and she started to think that perhaps this walking business might be something she'd try every morning; that is, until she settled things with Rick and left the island for good. But after about ten minutes of not seeing anyone else out there walking, or biking, or jogging, or driving for that matter, she started getting a little spooked. A couple of times she found herself spinning around to see who was following her, only to realize that the footsteps she heard
had been her own. And the wildlife she'd hoped to spot during this attempt to become one with nature? All dead. Smashed squirrels and squished snakes and crushed slugs and flattened worms. Roadkill all around. At one point the sound of a plane overhead seemed to offer a welcome sign of life, but when she looked up it literally disappeared into thin air as the grey sky swallowed it whole. A ghost plane. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, she began to wonder if something had happened, if some terrible disaster, some apocalyptic event, had occurred, leaving her unaware and alone and left out there to die. She grabbed the phone from inside her pocket. No service, of course. Then she turned around and hurried back to the house, doubling her pace.

What was with her, scared of her own shadow? Where was the Sunny who, much to Bashir Hadi's, and Jack's, dismay, would leap at any chance to throw on a head scarf and hit the unpredictable streets of Kabul on her own, so anxious to breathe in the smell of fresh
naan
coming from the bakeries and soak up the sights of the bearded vendors on Chicken Street as they haggled over the price of an “antique” sword or a lambskin hat? And when did she become such a lump? she wondered as she scraped at the bottom of the carton with the spoon. She never used to be like this. Hard work was something she'd always been drawn to, reveling in the challenge of a tough task and picturing the rewards she knew would follow. The coffeehouse was proof enough of that. She was proud of her accomplishment. And that feeling she used to get just from standing back and listening to the hodgepodge of languages, from seeing men and women from around the world, all so far away from everything familiar yet feeling so at home in her, Sunny's, place? Nothing could beat that.

Her last Skype session with Yazmina, from the vegan café down in town, had been a little tough. Seeing the jerky image of the Kabul coffeehouse in the laptop screen had made her feel as though it were a set of a movie, like it wasn't, and had never been, real. The place looked good, with a few slight changes that had been made here and there—some new curtains, cushions, tablecloths—but it did seem a bit quiet for a Thursday evening. Yazmina had spoken quickly and breathlessly in her improving English, her face seeming to glow as she shared with Sunny her wonder at little Najama's cleverness, her pride at her husband Ahmet's involvement with others determined to help build a better Afghanistan, and her worries about what trouble that might bring. But she was clearly busy, and before Sunny had a chance to inquire after Halajan and Rashif, or Bashir Hadi, or to ask about how Yazmina's sister Layla was doing in Minnesota, Yazmina had to go. Sunny had signed off with a feeling of envy she wasn't proud of.

Bear stood and stretched, then padded over to the couch where Sunny remained seated and rested his chin on her thigh with a sigh. “You said it, boy.” She stroked the brown fur on his head and stared out into the grey. There was no question about it. It was time to get out of Twimbly. It was time to settle with Rick. It was time to get a plan—a vision that was hers, and hers alone. And if it involved going back to Kabul, so be it. So long as she came up with a plan. It was time to get off her sweet ass and put it in gear.

But this place didn't seem to be helping much with that. She'd felt muddled and soft ever since she had stepped off that ferry. It was as though the island had cast an evil spell on her, one that made her lazy, and hungry, all the time.

Yes, decisions needed to be made. But maybe not right this moment. Candace was coming to town. And she was bringing a surprise.