Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “You should go in!” A few minutes later Sky stood before her, silhouetted by the golden sun. He shook his head back and forth, beads of water spraying from his long hair and onto Layla’s lap. Kat wasn’t far behind. She grabbed a striped towel and draped it over her shivering body, then sat down across the table from the two of them.

  “Seriously, the water is awesome today, Layla. C’mon.” Sky wrapped his damp, cool fingers around her wrist and pulled gently. Layla’s arm jerked back a little, as if it had a mind of its own. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kat send a quick shake of her head in Sky’s direction. He shrugged his shoulders and let go. “Well then,” he said with a smile, “let’s eat.”

  Layla and Kat picked at the fruit as Sky dove eagerly into just about everything else Sunny had packed in the blue cooler. Layla laughed inside at how serious he became when he ate, how focused his eyes were, blind to the band of seagulls tiptoeing their way toward him.

  “Gom shoo!” Layla kicked some sand toward the thieving birds. “Let us be.” She watched as Sky bit into another sandwich, her growing desire to speak to him silenced by her traditions, and by her own shyness. How easy it seemed for Kat, who laughed and talked and joked with him as if he were not a boy.

  “Does that not hurt?” she suddenly heard herself ask.

  Sky looked at her with lifted eyebrows, his mouth full of food.

  “That.” She gestured to her mouth, surprised at her own boldness. “Does it not hurt to eat?”

  Sky laughed. “You mean my smiley piercing?”

  Layla nodded.

  “Nah. I barely notice it now.” Sky took another bite from his sandwich. “Do people do piercings where you’re from?”

  Layla shook her head. “No. Ears or nose is allowed—this from the time of the Prophet. But in other places, muthlah.”

  “Mutilation,” Kat explained.

  “Yes,” Layla agreed, starting to feel as though she couldn’t keep herself from this conversation she knew she should not be having. “Also it is seen as like kuffar, unbelievers. It is forbidden. But of course, I talk just of girls. Men who pierced would be copying women, a thing also not allowed. No man would do this.”

  “So you are a double badass!” Kat rumpled Sky’s drying curls.

  “Wow. That’s harsh. Must be tough living over there.”

  “Really? You think so?” Kat responded in an exaggerated tone, her eyes like two round coins.

  “I love my home,” Layla protested, her voice rising.

  “It’s all good.” Sky held out a cold bottle of water for Layla. “So which do you like better? Afghanistan or here?”

  “That is a funny question. Of course I love my home more.” Layla took a sip of her water. “But that does not mean there are not good things about here too,” she quickly added.

  “That’s for sure,” Kat said.

  “Like what?” Sky asked. “What do you like about this place?”

  “Well, I can turn the handle this way to get hot water.” She pantomimed the gesture with one hand. “And that way to get cold.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The television! At home all we have is Afghan news, Bollywood movies.”

  “Hmm,” Sky said.

  “And the people,” she added, not wanting to disappoint him with her answers. “People here are so nice. The cars stop when you cross. Everyone says have a nice day. You go in a store, they are frowning. They see you, they smile.”

  “Ha!” Kat laughed.

  “Well, I hate to break it to you,” Sky said, “but it’s a law that you have to stop your car to let people cross, and those people in stores are probably being kind of fake.”

  “No, but also in school. Teachers sometimes beat us when we do not know answers. We are kids and girls, so they don’t need to be nice to us. Here, they try to help you.”

  “Well that sucks.” Sky wrinkled his sunburned nose.

  Layla shook her head. “Sometimes I think people do not see the good that is here,” she continued. “Like that show on television, about girls who are sixteen and pregnant. That you would have a child before even you have your wisdom teeth. To me that is shocking.”

  “Oh please,” Kat said. “How can you say that when you come from a country where girls get married when they’re barely out of diapers?”

  “But that is different,” Layla explained, suddenly anxious to continue. “That is forced. Here you have a choice. You are free to have the life you want. You have a government that makes your parents send you to school. You have laws that protect you from having to marry your uncle or your cousin when you are just twelve, rules that keep you from being a second wife, or a slave. When you have so many choices, I do not understand why anyone would make the choice to have a life that is so hard.”

  “So which do you prefer, Kat?” Sky rubbed his hand up and down her back to help warm her skin through the damp towel. She shrugged him off with a little jerk and didn’t answer. “Do you even remember what it’s like over there?” he continued.

  “Of course I remember,” she snapped. It was as if a dark cloud had suddenly appeared in the blue sky above. But the shadow passed over Kat’s face as quickly as it had arrived. She picked a Frisbee out of the sand and placed it on his head. “But you, you could live like a king over there, just because you have a dick.” Her hand flew to her mouth a little too late. “Oops, sorry,” she said to Layla. “But really, it’s true, right? They’re all taught over there that men are totally superior to women. Men get to make all the choices, they control everything. They even buy their wives’ and sisters’ underwear for them. Seriously. I’d rather be a three-legged dog over here than a woman over there.”

  “Ouch,” Sky said, glancing at Layla.

  “It is true,” Layla said. “Coming here, it is very strange for me to see how a woman can be the same as a man. That they do not need a man to take care of them. That they can even be the boss of men.”

  “Or just be super bossy.” Sky jerked sideways to dodge Kat’s playful slap.

  Layla sat with her arms at her sides, biting her cheeks to keep from laughing at the funny faces Sky was making behind Kat’s back. She could feel her entire body melt with the warmth from the sun and the smiles of the friends around her. It felt so strange, two girls acting this way around a boy. Yet it did not feel so wrong. But she knew it was wrong. And she knew that she must not let it happen again. So just today, she promised herself. She would let it be okay just for today. But, oh, how she wished this day could last forever.

  20

  Yazmina nodded toward the back corner of the coffeehouse where Omar sat at his usual spot, alone, waiting for the others to arrive and pass through on their way to the weekly meeting. The young man’s gaze was turned downward, his concentration on a newspaper that lay open in front of him on the wooden table. Around him, the room was fairly busy. “Good to see you again,” Ahmet called out as he passed a group of British embassy workers biting into Bashir Hadi’s burgers. “I hope you are enjoying your coffee,” he said to a pair of Canadian teachers whom he recognized from other visits. “Salaam alaikum,” he nodded to a black-haired man with an expensive striped chapan, a jacket identical to the one worn by President Karzai, carefully draped over the back of his chair. The man acknowledged him with eyes so dark they seemed to have no end.

  But today Ahmet had no time to wonder about the depth of a man’s eyes. He removed his coat and went behind the counter to pour two cups of chai from the tall thermos he kept there for the family’s use. He was expecting a good turnout next door at his mother’s house, where this afternoon they would be debating how they might take action at the university. It had taken many discussions, some quite heated, to agree on what issue to focus on to best help their country move forward. In the end, the answer was very clear, and existed very close to home.

  No one could argue that the corruption that ran like blood through the veins of Afghan society was one of the biggest stumbling blocks to the countr
y’s success. There was not one person he knew who did not have a story to tell of being solicited for money or a gift from someone with a service to offer, and plenty as well who would admit to making such an offer themselves—to a court official to avoid a fine, to a job recruiter to obtain a position, to a bank employee to secure favors, even to a doctor or nurse to ensure better treatment. It is just the way things are done, some would say. It is simply a sign of my gratitude, claimed others. And even if they considered the practice to be unjust, there were few who would lodge a formal complaint. Who could blame them, knowing that the police and the judges and the government workers were among those taking bribes most often? Not to mention the reprisals one might face from speaking out against a person of power.

  Where the group was struggling was in deciding on the best way to combat the problem. They had discussed the importance of codes of conduct, and the need for impartial monitoring systems, but how could a small band of university students manage to force that to happen? It was Rashif who had suggested the answer.

  “How can you right a wrong if nobody considers it a wrong?” his mother’s husband had asked the group. “You need to convince people that even their meager offerings for a service or favor are causing big problems that affect us all. That corruption begets more corruption. When one gets what they want, everybody expects the same.” And what better place to do that, he suggested, than at the university, where the content of an upcoming exam, or the changing of a grade, could be easily secured from a teacher or lecturer through money or gifts?

  Now they had a plan, or at least the beginning of one. Though they knew where they were going to direct their efforts, it would take more conversation to decide how they would go about it. And today they would start that discussion. But first he had to make good on his promise to Yazmina and have a private talk with the solemn young man in the corner.

  “Salaam dost e man. Hello, my friend. You are well? And your family is well?”

  The boy responded and offered his own greetings in return.

  Ahmet sat, and they both sipped their tea. On the other side of the room, over Omar’s shoulder, he could see Yazmina watching, urging him on with her eyes. He paused for a moment before speaking, feeling a little unease at continuing to pry into the personal life of another man in such a way. But he had given his word to Yazmina that he would tell Omar of his Zara’s predicament, and would discuss with him any way there might be to help the situation. So he squared his shoulders and went at it directly, as there was not much time before the meeting next door was to start.

  “Do you know, beraadar, brother, that your friend the girl came again to the coffeehouse?”

  The boy’s head shot up.

  “She did,” Ahmet confirmed.

  “What did she have to say? How did she seem?” Omar asked with an eagerness that washed away any attempt at propriety.

  “I didn’t see her. This time it was my wife who felt a reason to tell me about the visit. She seems to think that there is trouble with this girl.”

  “She was to be engaged,” Omar said sadly. “I have not seen her or heard from her in weeks. I thought perhaps she had already been wed.”

  “Apparently she has not. She doesn’t wish to marry.” Ahmet thought he detected a slight smile pass over the boy’s lips. “And apparently she seems to be making herself quite ill over it.” He checked his watch and continued. The last thing he wanted to do was to waste the others’ time by being late. “Do you know the girl’s parents?”

  Omar shook his head. “I have never met them. My family has no connections to them. But Zara tells me they are a good family.”

  “Well then, if they are a good family, we must trust that they will work things out for the best.” Ahmet stood and pushed his chair back. “In the meantime, as I have said before, you must protect yourself. And if you do care for this girl, stay away from her. It is for the best.”

  Omar looked down at his cup. “I seem to have no choice in the matter.”

  Ahmet nodded to Yazmina in acknowledgment that he had fulfilled her request to talk with the boy. Yes, she had urged him to be gentle, to show some compassion for the young couple, but to Ahmet, protecting his own family’s honor would always come first. If others thought they were advising the girl to disobey her parents’ wishes, or worse, if they were suspected of turning a blind eye to coffeehouse meetings between the couple, the gossip and accusations would begin to fly like an angry swarm of bees throughout the whole neighborhood. Perhaps Yazmina might not have agreed with the tenor of his words, but he had handled the situation the way he felt was best for all those involved.

  Omar stood to face him. “Do not worry,” the young man assured him. “I will not do anything stupid. I will, as you say, trust that things will work out for the best, whatever that best may be.”

  “Yes,” Ahmet replied, scanning the faces in the room one more time before turning his attention to the coming meeting next door. “Whatever that best may be.”

  21

  “And the cups for the soda were bigger than the teapot for all my family! We could throw a party with that one cup of soda. A baby could fit in that cup.”

  They all laughed as Layla shook her head. She had been to the north side of the island with Sky and Joe that afternoon, and their stop at 7-Eleven was still on her mind. In general, she didn’t seem to be getting along too well with the food over here—all the cheese and oil and sugar—but she was trying. She mostly seemed to go for Joe’s cooking, which he had learned to tailor to her taste. But all in all, she appeared to be thriving. Sunny envied how quickly she’d managed to improve her English, even if there were still times Kat was forced to step in with a translation. And right before the five of them had settled down on the porch for dinner, Sunny had watched as Layla hopped and tripped across the lawn with a soccer ball, giggling at Sky’s mock frustration with her unfamiliarity with the game and her inability to follow his instructions. Even now her cheeks were still flushed, her lips still turned up in a smile.

  And why not? It was a beautiful evening, so warm that Sunny had asked Kat and Sky to move the kitchen table outdoors. Hummingbirds darted in and out of the blue columbine that now peppered the shady lawn, and the bleeding heart and shooting stars were in full bloom on the far side of the maple tree. Sunny loved those for their name alone. Now the low sun was turning everything to gold, and for once the snow-topped peaks across the water were as clear as day. They had picked the carcass of Joe’s roast chicken clean, and now Bear, with all hopes of being offered a morsel dashed, sat eagerly by Sky’s side with a ball in his mouth.

  “Go ahead, you guys. I’ll clean up.” Sunny split the last of the wine between her glass and Joe’s, while the three “kids”, as he called them, excused themselves from the table and headed out to the lawn, the dog leading the way.

  “Ah, youth,” Joe sighed as he untucked the napkin from under his chin and folded it into a neat little square. “It is good to see that girl so happy.”

  “Guess it beats Minnesota.”

  “No, I don’t mean Layla. The other one. Little Miss Toughie.”

  “Kat? She’s not so tough.”

  Joe nodded his head up and down. “Hmm. How right you are, kiddo. But you know, sometimes a little bit of toughness can be a good thing, if it doesn’t turn you so hard that you can’t be cracked. And a toughness that comes from sorrow must be steeped with time before it can be turned into an advantage.”

  “Are you talking about yourself now?” Sunny assumed he was referring to losing Sylvia, and yet she still had a feeling there was more to Joe’s story than he had chosen to share.

  “Yes, I suppose I am talking about me. But also about Kat.”

  Across the lawn, Kat was squatted on the grass watching Sky and Layla toss the ball back and forth over Bear’s head. “How do you know so much about her?” Sunny asked. Despite any details Joe might be withholding about his own past, he seemed to know everything about everyone else. He had a wa
y of getting each person he met, including herself, to share their secrets with him, which, she thought, was an amazing feat considering he never seemed to keep his mouth shut long enough to let anyone else speak.

  Joe shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know so much, really. It’s just a sense I have about the girl. I imagine it must have been a difficult thing for her, coming so far so young, and still being looked at as an outsider no matter how American she becomes.”

  “She does seem to work awfully hard at that, right?”

  “You know, kiddo, it’s not easy to feel at odds with who you are, where you are from.” Joe’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, as if his thoughts were a million miles away. He swatted at a mosquito that had landed on his arm and turned back to Sunny. “It’s a harsh world Kat comes from, am I right?”

  Sunny paused before answering. “Well, yes,” she agreed, “and no. It is true that there’s a way of thinking that exists over there that none of us will ever be able to understand. You’ve got such an ancient culture, and tribal codes that still dictate how things are done. It’s complicated. And yes, there is plenty of injustice and corruption and poverty and violence. But it’s not all like that.”

  “So tell me something about the things that are not all like that. Tell me what it is about that country that makes you want to run back to it as if it were a long-lost lover.”

  “Oh Joe, where do I begin? It’s not always easy to describe it to people who haven’t experienced it themselves. Sort of like teaching someone to tie their shoelaces over the phone.” Sunny pushed back her curls, her elbows coming to rest on the table before her. Just thinking about Afghanistan made her long to be back there. “You know, it truly is a spectacular country, not like what they choose to show us here on television. Mountains that seem to touch the sky, and lakes just as blue as that shirt Sky has on, so still and glassy you could use them as a mirror. Even in the city, you can find these incredibly lush rose gardens hidden behind dusty walls, and sunsets I’d hold up to the ones around here any day.” She nodded toward the golden orb sinking slowly down to earth. “But honestly? To me the most beautiful thing about Afghanistan is its people. They’ve got to be the most generous people on earth. To a fault,” she added, remembering the time she had casually admired a scarf that Bashir Hadi’s wife, Sharifa, was wearing. It was deep purple to-die-for silk, so fine it felt like melting butter in her fingers.