Rick lowered his dark eyebrows and slowly shook his head. “I’d rather not do that to Jack.”
“I don’t get it,” she answered a little too loudly. “Don’t you think Jack would want what I want?”
“What I think, sweetheart,” he said as he ran his hand back over his shiny dark hair, “is that you might not know what you want. And maybe you didn’t know Jack like I knew Jack.”
It was then that Sunny truly began to sense something else at play behind this guy’s wide smile. How dare he? Sweetheart? And no one knew Jack better than Sunny knew Jack. Like how kind and respectful he was to everyone, regardless of who they were or where they came from. Or how deeply he felt for those in need. Or how quick he was with the perfect wisecrack to lighten a dark mood or brighten a cloudy day. Suddenly she began to notice more about the man sitting across from her. Wasn’t his hair just a little too perfect? And his shoes, so shiny she’d bet he could simply glance down after a lunch and check those big old teeth in them. Why on earth had Jack chosen to be friends with this guy? She knew they had met years ago when Jack had briefly been stationed at the base up-island, and that Rick was the townie who had taken him under his wing and introduced him to life on the island. But seriously, to remain friends all these years, and to go into a partnership with a guy like him? Ah—but there was where Rick had been right. Jack had been friends with everybody. She bent to retrieve her knapsack from the floor and stood.
Rick stood along with her. “You’re going?”
“Gotta run,” she answered, her words sliding down the scale in mock apology.
“Well, think about my offer. Though I suppose we could sell the place. One of those dickhead developers who are ruining the island would snap it up in a nanosecond. But really? The way I feel about it? I honestly think we should remember how much the place meant to Jack.”
She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits, as if squinting might actually help her see this man more clearly. “You know what?” she finally answered. “Why don’t we both just think about it for a day or two? I’m sure we can figure this out somehow.” And with that she flashed him her own wide smile, grabbed her jacket, and walked out the door.
Asshole, she thought to herself now, thinking back on the conversation as she took in the sight of the shabby kitchen around her. Now what was she supposed to do? Maybe he was right. Maybe she should honor Jack’s wishes. But then again, maybe it was just a tactic to get her to lower her asking price. Which, of course, she could do. But the thought of letting that creep manipulate her in such a way, when he was supposedly Jack’s friend, made her sick to her stomach. Regardless, she supposed she should offer to meet with Rick again to discuss the possibilities in more detail. But the next time she’d make sure to allow enough time to get lost en route. No way was she going to let herself be stuck for one more night than necessary on this fucking island, with nothing better to do than scrub the damn floors.
6
Zara woke to the smell of cooking eggs coming from the kitchen. How early her mother must have risen today. She stretched and stifled a yawn, careful not to rouse her little sister Mariam breathing softly and evenly on the toshak beside her. Still half-asleep herself, Zara’s foggy thoughts turned to the lazy Friday ahead, when she and her sister would first help their mother serve the morning meal, and later partake in their own midday prayers as the men went off to the mosque. And then she remembered, the dread filling her veins like a crippling poison. Any day, even this one, could bring a proposal, and along with it the end of her life as she knew it. There would be no more waking with her sweet sister by her side, no more of her mother’s warm breakfasts, or the touch of her hand as she smoothed Zara’s hair into a tidy braid. Gone would be the days of burying herself in her schoolbooks, the feeling of satisfaction from a difficult problem solved or a question soundly answered. There would be no more giggling and gossiping with her girlfriends as they hurried between classes. And there would be no more Omar.
Zara bolted upright, her bare feet landing on the rug beside her with a thud. If only her worries had all been a bad dream and things could still be just the way they were. But now she felt as though she were working against a giant ticking clock, trying to turn back its hands to a time before the specter of a proposal had reared its ugly head.
As she readied herself to join her mother in the kitchen her thoughts went to a day not long ago, a day when her future seemed as bright as the golden sun above, a day made all the more so delicious by its secrecy. A Wednesday, it was. She and Omar had agreed to skip class, borrow a friend’s car, and escape for a picnic together at Qargha dam, about thirty minutes outside of the city. How badly they’d wanted to have some precious time together to talk, to sit and share their hopes and dreams for as long as they wanted, with nobody around to judge or tattle or condemn. Of course, even with no one who knew them anywhere in sight, the outing would have still aroused suspicions, would have caused heads to turn and questions to be asked about a young man and woman out alone, just the two of them, together. So rather than risk any complications that might come from that, she’d enlisted the help of her sister, to whom the promise of a break from school for a day by the lake was more than enough to ensure silence.
“Your smile seems to be saying a million words that your tongue leaves unspoken,” Omar had said to her as they walked along the pebbly shore, shoes in hand.
Ahead of them, Mariam hopped along the water’s edge, the lower half of her long black school uniform turning even darker with dampness. “I’m just imagining,” Zara answered.
“Imagining what?”
“Oh,” she giggled a little, “just thinking of the day when we will be walking on a beach with a child of our own.”
“You are dreaming big dreams, my heart.”
“And why not? Isn’t that what life is about? Capturing your dreams and turning them into what is real?”
“And what else is in those dreams, might I ask?”
“You know. Everything we have already talked about. First, we will get our diplomas. Then we will do some studies in another country, maybe Germany or even Australia. I will become a famous lawyer, and you will become a celebrated journalist. And we will have three children—two boys and a girl—who will all grow up to be strong and handsome and kind, and who will always remain devoted to Allah and to their loving parents.”
Omar laughed. “I see you have it all worked out. If only life were so.”
“And why would it not be so? My parents have been supportive of my studies. They are proud of my ambitions. And they have not been in a hurry to marry me off to some skinny cousin or an uncle once removed who barely reaches my shoulder. We are lucky.”
“Maybe we are lucky. But we must also be realistic. I am only a student who has to work two jobs just to get by, who lives in a house crowded with cousins. Your parents will not want me as a son-in-law either. My family is not important or rich—we’re simple farmers from the Panjshir Valley. We have practically nothing.”
“Then I will change their minds for them. You will see.” Zara picked up a flat, smooth stone and flicked it across the lake’s glassy green surface, watching until it disappeared behind a trail of foam. She lifted both arms toward the blue sky and twirled under the midday sun, the hem of her kameez slapping against the legs of her jeans. Omar laughed as he reached out to steady her, the quick, illicit touch of his hand like a burst of flame through her sleeve. Zara smiled, and hugged herself in her own embrace, happy with the world and everything in it.
But she also remembered that later that day, after the three of them had been seated on the terrace of a waterside restaurant for lunch, a strange feeling had come over her, an unease that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. It began when they were digging into their chopaan kabobs, as the first hot pieces of charred lamb were pulled from the sticks and popped into their hungry mouths. The hair on Zara’s arms had suddenly stood at attention, as if a stiff breeze had blown up off the
lake. But the edges of the bright tablecloths remained still, and the water’s surface appeared as smooth as a mirror. Zara’s eyes scanned the tables around her, many still sitting empty under full place settings laid out by the hopeful owner. Even on such a beautiful day the tourists were still staying away, Zara thought, scared off by the memory of the horrific attack that had occurred at the Spojmai Hotel right next door, less than one year before. Dozens had died after being held hostage for hours. Others had escaped by jumping into the lake, clinging to a stone wall throughout the night as they waited to be rescued. The Taliban had claimed responsibility, just as they did for every attack that brought big headlines, whether they actually were the ones who did it or not. But whoever had stormed the hotel with their grenades and machine guns, Zara—like the rest of the Afghans dining peacefully around her—knew they wouldn’t return. They had sent their message. Perhaps it was the ghosts from that day that were the cause of her unease, Zara thought, as she pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders.
They remained on the terrace, warmed by the afternoon sun, as Mariam savored a bowl of sheer yakh, scraping gently at the mound of ice cream with her spoon as if she could make it last forever. Zara pushed the new pair of fake Ray-Bans up higher onto the bridge of her nose and allowed herself to relax, her focus switching to a pair of yellow paddle boats, shaped like swans, gliding toward the dam. The lake sparkled with a million tiny pinpoints of light, as if mocking the dull brown mountains around it.
After Omar had paid the bill and they’d started across the patio for one last look at the shore before heading home, Zara was hit once again with a sense of apprehension. Her eyes darted from table to table with the fear that perhaps she and Omar had been spotted by someone who knew her family. But Zara saw no familiar faces. She turned to search the terrace of the hotel next door, and checked behind them, peering through the glass doors that led to the interior of the restaurant, but still no one seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to their little group of three. Even so, Zara just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that she was being watched.
Now, by the light of the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window, Zara thought she understood. On that perfect day, a day where promise floated through the lakeside air like a kite on a string, a day when anything seemed possible, perhaps that sense of menace had instead been the arrival of a dark premonition, the foreshadowing of the unwelcome turn of events that was soon to come.
“Salaam,” Zara greeted her mother good morning as the woman scooped a bowlful of chopped tomatoes into the pan of eggs. Zara took out the plastic eating mat, carried it into the dining area, and unrolled it onto the floor. As she set out the plates and the thermoses of black and green tea, the rest of the household began to gather, her uncles and aunts lowering themselves to the floor to partake in their morning meal. Mariam was now awake and as chipper as a baby bird, chattering away as she fulfilled her job as the youngest in the household, pouring water over each pair of waiting hands and offering a towel to dry.
As she scooped up her breakfast with the warm naan torn from the flat loaf passed from person to person, Zara once again felt there were eyes upon her. But this time she was definitely right, and the little smiles on her aunts’ faces and the looks shared among them turned the soft eggs in her mouth into a thick sludge that she could barely manage to swallow.
Perhaps she’d gather the courage to speak with her father today, she thought as she watched his strong fingers grip the cup at his lips. He had not yet said a word to her about a proposal, so there was still a chance it was not too late. Maybe what Yazmina had first suggested at the coffeehouse had been correct. Maybe her father would understand, and the whole matter would soon be forgotten. But then the rest of Yazmina’s words echoed in her mind. It is the way things are done. It is tradition. And as the meal was finished, and the women stood to clear the dishes, and the call to prayer began to sound in the street outside, and the men hurried out the door to the mosque, Zara became leaden with the knowledge that her new friend had spoken the truth.
7
“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 t
o 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?”
Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul Page 5
