Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (9 page)

The blue dome capping the faded walls of the Shah-e-Do Shamshaira mosque loomed before her, the edifice nearly blending in to the dusty hills beyond and clear sky above, save for its stacked white columns and high, arched windows. Halajan rushed past, through the gaggle of old men stooping to feed the pigeons, her eyes straight ahead, defying anyone who might wonder at a woman traveling alone in the center of the city.

The streets were jammed with traffic, horns blaring and tailpipes spitting out enough fumes to choke an elephant. She covered her nose and mouth with the bottom of her scarf and turned left onto the narrow bridge that spanned the Kabul River, its once verdant banks and flowing waters now a mud-caked trench littered with garbage and filth. Once safely on the other side, she paused for a moment to catch her breath, then continued left toward the
Mondai-e
bazaar, past the vendors on the streets surrounding the market, many crouched next to
the blankets spread at their feet, others leaning on their wheeled carts as they sipped their
chai
, waiting for a taker for the fabrics and undergarments and sugarcane juice they offered. These were the ones, she knew, who were not allowed to be selling, who had not paid for the right to have their space. But that didn't seem to stop anyone from buying. As Halajan was about to make the right turn into the passageway that would lead her to her destination, she heard a small voice at her side. “Rabbits,
maadar kalaan
? Do you need some rabbits today, grandmother?”

She turned to see a grinning boy no older than ten, his clothes in tatters and his face smeared with dirt, offering a birdcage heaped with a squirming pile of brown fur. But as she bent closer for a better look, the boy's smile suddenly collapsed, his eyes widening with fear. Out of the corner of her own eye she spied a blue-shirted policeman waving a stick. The boy lifted his arms to cover his face before the first blow fell. Halajan heard his cry and quickly stepped in front of him, raising her head to look the menacing man squarely in his steely eyes. This time the stick stopped in midair. Halajan's look narrowed into a squinting dare as she remained frozen in place, waiting for the rage to leave the man's face. Then she turned and began to slowly walk away, one eye remaining behind to make sure it was understood that there was no sale underway, and no reason to harass. The boy smiled and waved. Halajan quickened her step. Najama didn't want a rabbit anyway. No, it was a peacock Halajan was after. And today, she was in the mood for a deal.

Through the tight alleyways she wound, first left then right then left again. She knew her way well, from the times she had been here as a girl, with her father. The lane grew smaller as she continued—another left, then a right—until the sounds of the street were completely drowned out by the twitters and trills
and caws bouncing off the crumbling mud walls. The Alley of Straw Sellers, where men had gathered for many generations with birds for sale, lay straight ahead.

Halajan squeezed her arms close to her body as she entered the heart of the market, where in some places it was not even wide enough for two people to pass without touching. Seeds and husks sailed through the close air, stirred up by the flapping of hundreds of wings.

It did not seem all that long ago to her that the birds of Kabul had been silenced by the Taliban. In a place where even the poorest of homes followed the old royal tradition of keeping songbirds, the bird sellers at the
Market Kaa Forushi
had been thriving. But to the fundamentalists, there was only one song that mattered—the song of the Koran—and everything else was deemed a distraction. They swarmed through the bird markets and into people's homes, opening cages and forcing the birds out into a hostile world, one the birds were not prepared for, where many met their fates in the mouths of hungry cats and dogs.

Now there were plenty of people keeping birds again. For even on the darkest of days, in a home with little money to spare, the song of a bird is an invitation to dream. And besides, how much trouble could a bird be anyway? thought Halajan. As Sunny used to say about Yazmina, they
ate like birds
.

Today in the market there seemed to be more socializing than selling going on; the men and boys crouched close to their stalls, sharing a laugh or a smoke or a cup of
chai
. But as Halajan walked past their chatter suddenly seemed to come to a halt, silenced by the sight of a woman trespassing through their male world.

That made Halajan itch for a bargain even more. Was her money not good enough? And what was the problem? she
thought as she stopped for a moment to scan the alleyway behind her. She could not see even one other customer interested in purchasing their wares. Halajan took a deep breath, inhaling the cloud of cigarette smoke around her, and continued deeper into the dark maze.

She passed the dog kennels empty of dogs but crowded with chickens and roosters and ducks, and circled around to the place where men kept their prized
kowks
and little
budanas
in airy wicker cages, to be let out only for show. Here the birds were treated like kings, coddled and fussed over from Saturday to Thursday, with hopes that Friday morning would bring riches from the men placing bets on their fighting prowess. Though from what Halajan remembered being told, even then the birds were scooped up and shielded from clawing talons before any true battle could occur. They were far too valuable to let any real harm come to them.

Deeper and deeper she went, through the jumble of cages filled with canaries and finches belting out their birdsong in the dark alleyway. Some looked a little worn, others seemed scrappy. Halajan thought how confused they must all be from the darkness. You would hardly know what time of day it was, if it weren't for the slivers of sunlight breaking through the narrow slats of the tin roofs above. But it was the caged doves that made her the saddest, with their hopeless dreams of flight stirred daily by the coos of their luckier brothers and sisters soaring through the late afternoon Kabul skies.

Finally she came upon the peacocks. Halajan planted herself firmly in front of a toothless vendor who sat on his heels, sipping his tea. The man barely raised his eyes.

“How much?” she asked without bothering to stop for the usual formalities.

“Twelve thousand.”

Halajan laughed. “The cost of half a year's rice just for one little bird?”

“That is my price.” The man stood and turned away from her, busying himself with a leaky bag of seed.

“You must be a very rich man, to turn away at the smell of money.”

The man shrugged his shoulders and continued with his task.

“Twelve thousand afghanis for a bird that does not even sing. And that one over there, the one missing the feathers on his wing. How much is he?”

The man turned toward the bird and hesitated. “Ten thousand,” he grunted.

“For a scraggly old bird? You should be paying me to take him off your hands.”

“He still has a beautiful tail. One with colors that will fetch a hefty sum.”

“Okay. So then what about the white one? Who would want a peacock with no color?”

“The albino peacock is very rare. Very prized. That will cost you thirteen thousand.”

Halajan turned to leave, feeling insulted by this greedy man who seemed to have no sense. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and began to walk away.

“Fifteen hundred,” came a voice from behind her.

She turned back toward him and planted her feet firmly on the ground. “Fifteen hundred for what?”

He reached his hand into a cage that held three small birds, retrieving one that he separated from the rest without hesitation. “Fifteen hundred for this one.”

Halajan looked down at the little brown bundle of feathers. “Ach. You call that a peacock?”

The man nodded. “It is a she-hen.”

“How can you tell?” she asked, eyeing the others in the cage with suspicion.

“The feathers on the wings. They are darker brown. It is a girl.”

“So you are trying to sell me a peacock with no tail?”

“She is all you can afford. She is not as prized as the male birds.”

“Of course not,” said Halajan with a scowl. Not even in the bird world do women have any value. The little bird remained silent and still in the man's rough hands. She was no bigger than a teakettle.

“You must take it or leave it. I don't have all day, old woman.”

Of course you don't, thought Halajan, as she stood contemplating the helpless creature in front of her. What kind of surprise would this be for Najama? No matter how long the girl might wait, there would never be a beautiful tail appearing from the behind of this bird. How would she ever explain this choice that was destined to end in disappointment?

The man bent down to return the bird to the cage.

“Wait!” Halajan commanded. “Twelve hundred and you have a deal.”

“Thirteen,” he said as he straightened back up.

Thirty minutes later she was back across the river, a domed cage wedged up against her skinny legs, waiting for a bus to carry her home. Three buses had passed her by before she had been able to locate where the normal stop was. It wasn't like it used to be. Even during the Russian times there were proper bus stops, where the buses would pull over for passengers to get safely off and on. Now it was a free-for-all, with no signs anywhere, and the decision to stop purely at the whim of the driver.
Finally one of the little green buses came to a halt in the street in front of her, and Halajan hurried to keep up with the others rushing to board, the birdcage banging against her side. She handed the attendant her ten afghanis and managed to secure the last available seat in the women's section—the one directly in front of the men's, the seat most women avoided so as to not be forced to deal with harassing touches from behind. But Halajan didn't care. If anyone wanted to bother with this grandma, go ahead. Sometimes it was good to be old, she thought as she took note of the women around her, their gazes lowered to avoid the leering stares and unwanted pursuit that happened so often when a young woman traveled by bus. Unable to simply use a smile as a way of flirting with a girl, with the hope of a smile in return, a boy would instead choose to follow her, knowing her daily habits, and where she would be when.

Halajan lifted the cage onto her lap as more people crowded the bus. So many stops! And so much traffic. At this rate she would never get home. The peahen seemed impatient as well, its peeps and squawks growing louder and more frequent with the driver's every step on the brake.

“Shush!” whispered Halajan as she bent forward to check on the bird. It did look a little out of sorts, with its feathers puffed up and its eyes drooping shut. Finally the bus broke free of the traffic and was able to pick up some speed. Halajan steadied the cage with one hand and held fast to her seat with the other as they bounced up and down over the ruts and potholes below, counting the minutes before she could get off of this damn thing. The bird's peeps and squawks were turning into more of a screech, and now, just like the men were glaring at the women, the women were starting to glare at her. “Quiet!” she hissed to the peahen. But the screeching wouldn't stop. The bird did not
look well. Perhaps it is carsick, Halajan thought, just as a dribble of thick liquid escaped from its beak.

Halajan turned her head toward the window to avoid the stares of the women being cast upon her like sharp stones. How she envied the men in their cars below, free to come and go in privacy as they pleased. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the surprise ahead. Najama would be happy as a trout in a mountain stream when she saw her peacock. There would be no reason to tell her the truth about the peacock being a girl, at least not until the bird was grown. And by then,
inshallah
, the two would have formed a special bond, and all would be forgiven.

The peacocks had been at it since before sunrise, the horny males belting out those fake screams of ecstasy that were their secret weapons for luring a mate with their supposed prowess. Men, thought Sunny as she poured her first cup of coffee. Through the kitchen window she could see Joe out on her lawn, already perched in his usual spot on the wooden bench under the maple, sipping espresso from a tiny ceramic cup, Bear curled up with a stick by his feet. She grabbed a sweater and crossed the dewy lawn to join them.

“That screeching is going to be the death of me, I swear it, Joe. Worst alarm clock ever.”

“And good morning to you too, kiddo. I trust you had a good night's sleep, at least until you were awoken by our lovely birdsong.” He tapped his cup lightly against hers and took a sip. “But then I'm sure you are familiar with the story of the peacock and the nightingale, aren't you?”

“Nope,” she yawned. “But I'm sure you're going to tell me.” Sunny sat back against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes as she waited for the coffee on her lap to cool.

“Well, you see,” he began, “in the story, the peacock goes to the goddess Juno to complain that she had not given him the song of the nightingale, a song wondrous to every ear, while he became a laughing stock each time he opened his mouth. Juno consoles the peacock by pointing out his beauty and his size.” Joe held both his arms out wide to illustrate. “The peacock then asks ‘What is the use of beauty, with a voice like mine?' ‘Your lot in life has been assigned by the Fates,' she tells him. ‘Each must be content with his own particular gift.' In other words,” Joe leaned back next to Sunny, “take care not to strive for something that was not given to you, or you will waste your life being disappointed by what you don't have.”

“And I suppose there is a message for me somewhere in there?”

Joe just shrugged his shoulders, then drained his cup.

“Well I still can't stand those birds.”

“I'm sure Rick would be more than happy to come take care of them for you if you asked him.”

“What do you mean take care of them?”

“He shoots them.” Joe placed his cup on the bench and positioned his arms as if they were holding a rifle. “Kaboom!” he said as he pulled the imaginary trigger. “I've seen him do it plenty of times.”

Sunny cringed at the thought. “Jeez! What's with that guy?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders again.

“He's such a strange one, Joe. And I wish he'd stop honking on me to buy him out. If he wants to sell, and I want to sell, we should just sell, right?”

“Rick may be an unpleasant man, but he's not a stupid man. I suspect he has his reasons. Like they say,
Chi ha una retta coscienza possiede un regno
. His own desire leads every man.” Joe lifted both feet and placed them gently on Bear's soft brown behind. “So, maybe you should buy him out.”

“Why on earth would I do that? What would I do with a place like this? Not to mention where I'd ever get the money from,” Sunny snorted. “You're looking at practically my entire bank account right here.” She swept her arm over her head. “That is, if you shut one eye and block out half of it.”

Joe laughed. “Well, you know what they say. Where there's a will there's a way.”

“You know I have no will. And you also know that I don't want to stay here forever.”

“Who said anything about forever? Forever is a long time, kiddo. Trust me. I know.”

“This isn't the life for me, Joe. Can't you see that?”

“I see all sorts of things.”

“Well, maybe you do. But you can't see what's in my head. Sometimes I can barely make out what's going on in there myself.”

Joe shrugged his shoulders. Sunny had a sudden urge to shake the old man. “Besides,” she continued, “even if I did have the money to buy Rick out, then what? I just sit here on the top of this damn hill and get fat? How would I live? I know how hard it is to get work on this island. Not that I'm even considering doing that, mind you. Not on your life.”

“So you say.”

“Okay, old man.” Sunny put down her cup and folded her arms in front of her chest. “What are you getting at?”

Joe sat up straight and rubbed his hands together, his eyes bright with excitement. “Okay. Fine. You want to work? You can work. Now, here's what I've been thinking. First we spiff
up the place a bit. Not too much. Not too slick. We want it to look authentic. A little landscaping, maybe a couple of parking places. Perhaps a fountain over there.” Sunny followed the path of his bony finger. “Then we're all set to go. Weddings in the vineyard. A cheese shop in the shed. And in the barn? A tasting room. Wines from all over the state. My cooking. Your hospitality. We'll kill 'em, kiddo!” He clapped his hands together like a boy at his first circus.

Sunny leaned forward, propped her elbows on her knees, and planted her forehead in her hands. “Not gonna happen, Joe.” She let out a huge sigh. Bear slid out from under the bench and planted a lick on her nose.

“I'm just saying.”

“Yeah, well, I'm just saying no.”

Joe shook his head, then took her hands in his own. “You know, Sunny Tedder, there are times in your life when you have to take advantage of what fate has given you, just like Juno said to that whiny peacock. And also just like what I said to myself when I had to leave here, but then found Italy. You are so busy striving for what's not yours that you don't appreciate what is. You had Jack's love, and you always will. It lives in this place, and it lives in our friendship as well. What is no longer yours is the life you had at that coffeehouse in Afghanistan. But that doesn't mean you can't use your gifts, and find your happiness, somewhere else. Trust me. I know.”

Sunny wondered, not for the first time, what Joe wasn't telling her about his own past. No doubt he'd talk about it, in his own time. For now she simply looked down at the muddy ground and rubbed her forehead, and silently cursed the lump that was forming in her throat. “You're
killing
me, Joe. Do you always wake up like this?”

“
Chi dorme non piglia pesci.
Those who sleep don't catch any fish.”

Sunny swallowed and stood. “Please, stop with the proverbs already. And while you're at it, stop complicating my life. It's complicated enough as it is.”

 

The trouble had all started eight days ago, when Candace showed up.

“Have I had a week!” Candace said in typical fashion as she blew through Sunny's kitchen door like the bombshell that she was. Sunny stepped back and couldn't help but smile. The Candace Show was in town. She'd missed her old friend who at first glance looked, not old, but at least her own forty-something years for once. It was as though she had finally settled into her face, instead of keeping up a constant battle with it. It suited her.

“What happened to you?” was Candace's second line. Sunny looked down at her own baggy sweater and expanding thighs. But before she had a chance to get angry, she heard another voice behind her.

“
Salaam
, Sunny jan.”

She slowly turned to see a tall, green-eyed young woman in a long pink tunic and matching scarf, with pants that covered a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever. The girl stood in the doorway, looking so much like her older sister that Sunny had to blink twice. “Layla?”

The girl stepped forward and kissed Sunny three times on the cheeks.

“Oh my God! Layla! Look at you!” She held the girl by the elbows and checked her out from head to toe, shocked at how much she had changed from that skinny twelve-year-old Sunny
had left behind in Kabul. “Come, please. Come in.” She took the suitcases from Layla's hands and shoved them into a corner. “What an amazing surprise!”

Candace leaned on the counter as Sunny pulled out a chair and gestured for Layla to sit. “I can't believe it's you! You came all the way here with Candace to see me? How is Minnesota? When do you have to get back to school? How long are you two going to be here?”

Layla sat back in her chair, eyes wide, as if Sunny's questions were a speeding train coming straight at her. She turned, confused, to Candace.

“Give the girl a chance, Sunny.”

“Well, how long can you stay?” Sunny directed the question to Candace this time.

“Me? I, unfortunately, have to be out of here ASAP. Headed to DC. All the money people are in town.” She began to count off her obligations on her fingers. “A big fundraiser, some meetings with donors …”

Sunny tried to hide her disappointment. “Well, okay then, so we'll just have to make the most of our time together. I'll show you guys everything—”

“But Layla,” Candace continued, “Layla would be happy to stay a little longer. Right?” She turned to the girl, who simply shifted her beautiful eyes back and forth between the two women.

“But I thought—”

“It is
so
nice of you to offer, Sunny. Things have been a little difficult for Layla in Minnesota. You know, adjusting and all? Her host family turned out to be not as sensitive to Afghan ways as they should be, especially the teenagers in the house. You know how kids can be. It's been hard on the girl, and she's
been begging to go home. But Yaz and I have agreed that she should try to stick out her stay, if any solution could be found. So I thought to myself, who would be more sensitive to Afghan ways than Sunny Tedder herself? So here we are!”

“But I'm not staying,” Sunny protested. “I can't—”

“Well, how long
will
you be here?”

Sunny had no answer.

“It's settled then.” Candace grabbed an apple from the counter and rubbed it against her sleeve. “Layla will stay as long as you do.”

“Why can't she stay with you?”

“Please.” Candace shook her head as she swallowed a bite. “My life is no place for a girl like Layla. Airport to airport, back-to-back meetings, a new hotel room practically every night, crappy room-service meals, and then every morning getting up and starting it all over again.”

“But my life isn't either! I have no home, I'm not settled.”

Candace looked around the kitchen, her eyes stopping on the fresh-cut chrysanthemums on the table, the cookies cooling on the counter, the cat curled up atop the heating vent under the door leading to the living room. “You look pretty settled to me.”

“But I'm not a mother.” Sunny could hear her own voice cracking. “I don't have the faintest clue what to do with a teenager.”

“Well I'm not a mother either, in case you haven't noticed. And really, what's there to do? You feed them, make sure they have clean clothes, and try to keep them out of trouble.” She tossed an apple to a startled Layla. “Easy-peasy! Oh, and she needs to be studying English. Not that she doesn't already do pretty well with it, from hanging around the coffeehouse and lessons in Kabul. But it's part of the deal for the visa. And no worries about money, I'll pay.”

For one quick moment, every infuriating thing about Candace that used to trigger Sunny's ire came flooding back like a sudden storm. But seeing the poor girl, so far from home, so far from everything she knew and everyone she loved, was enough to make Sunny keep her mouth shut. She'd manage for the short time she'd remain on the island.

And like a fairy godmother, with a wave of her wand, Candace was gone.

 

Now, from her seat on the bench beside Joe, Sunny watched as the girl emerged from the house, wrapped in a blanket from head to toe.

“
Salaam,
Sunny jan,” Layla called out with a sweet smile.

“Good morning to you too, sleepyhead,” Sunny called back.

“
Ohayō
,” Layla said to Joe with a little bow as she reached the bench, using the Japanese greeting he'd already taught her.

“
Buongiorno, bella
,” Joe answered back.

Sunny sighed. Better start looking for an English teacher, she thought to herself.

“Just look, Sunny,” said Joe as he graciously extended his arms to offer Layla a seat on the bench, “you have wanted so badly to be in Kabul? Now the Fates have brought a little Kabul to you.”

 

Upon waking earlier that morning, Layla had stretched her arms up over her head and yawned. How lazy she felt beneath the puffy blanket Sunny had insisted she sleep under. It must be very late, she assumed by the light coming from behind the curtains. She was not used to the silence that came from having a room of her own. Of course when she was very little, growing
up in the mountains, she had slept in the same room as her entire family, their beds pushed up against the stone walls, away from the hearth in the center of the room where her mother would prepare their meals, and where they would all eat. There were two other rooms below, but those were used to hold wood and grain, not sleeping people. In Minnesota, she had shared a room with Brittany, her host parents' daughter, who was the same age as she was. Layla had never seen any room like it before. It was as if Brittany were a princess in a pink palace, her bed draped with pink gauze hung from above, a thick pink carpet covering the floor, a sparkly pink chandelier dangling from her ceiling. The only thing the girl lacked, in her opinion, was the grace of a princess. Layla fought to mask her shock each morning as they dressed, Brittany trying and discarding outfit after outfit of skirts that barely covered her private parts and shirts that clung to her breasts like the skin of a grape. And the secret parties that would happen when Brittany's parents weren't home, when boys and girls would wrap themselves around each other and rub their bodies together in what they called dance, some of them sharing alcohol and cigarettes they'd brought hidden in their purses and knapsacks. But the worst was the argument Layla had witnessed between Brittany and her mother. Who knew what had caused it? Probably something unimportant, but it escalated quickly and before Layla knew it Brittany had stormed up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door, shouting “I hate you!” at her poor mother, who simply turned and went back to the kitchen. Layla had at first wanted to hide, embarrassed and ashamed by the disrespect shown by this girl. Yet soon those feelings became clouded by a coldness growing inside her, a sense of despair for a world where the elders were not treated with the honor that was their due.