“Well then it is yours,” Sharifa had insisted, removing the scarf from her own shoulders and draping it over Sunny’s. “May you wear it in happiness and good health.”
Sunny, of course, had protested, knowing that the scarf must have cost Bashir Hadi a week’s salary, if not more. But Sharifa would have none of it. Not even after Sunny had later neatly tucked it into Bashir Hadi’s coat pocket while he was busy in the kitchen and nobody was watching. The very next day she found the scarf back on the hook by the coffeehouse door. Sunny quickly learned to keep her compliments to herself, at least around her Afghan friends.
“And kind? You don’t know what true kindness is until you’ve been around Afghans,” she told Joe. “You’re arriving in town at 3 am? No problem. The entire household will get up as if it’s noon and whip up a five-course meal to welcome you back. Honest. It’s happened to me plenty of times. And I tell you, those folks will have your back in an instant, keeping you out of harm’s way and stopping you from saying or doing the wrong thing.” She couldn’t count how many times Bashir Hadi had saved her butt.
“I’m sure they loved you over there. How could they not?”
“Yeah, right,” Sunny snorted. “But seriously, Joe. It’s not just me, or other foreigners, who get that kind of treatment. It’s just the way things are done in their culture. This is how most people treat others in their family, which, by the way, is a very loose term over there. Oh my God, you should see what happens when a couple gets married. A guy can walk into his own wedding and find over a thousand people in the banquet hall, half of whom he doesn’t even recognize. But somehow, they are ‘family’, and he is obligated to welcome them, and feed them.” Sunny paused to light the citronella candle in the middle of the table and watched as the dark smoke climbed into the twilight. “But what most people don’t understand,” she continued, “is how much these people truly love their country. They’re proud of who they are and where they’re from. We just assume that they’re all dying to get out of there. Well, of course nobody wants to live in a war-torn place, but even with decades of battle after battle, Afghans never give up on their country. Their love goes deeper than that. Have you ever noticed the look on Layla’s face when someone tells her how lucky she is to be here, or asks her ‘don’t you want to stay’? Imagine how insulting their pity must feel to her.”
“A love of a country can sometimes be a very complicated thing. I know.”
Sunny now settled back with her glass in hand, knowing that whenever Joe ended a sentence with I know, a story was to follow. But for once he remained silent.
The last sliver of sun disappeared behind the distant peaks. Sunny shivered a little and stood from the table. Joe scraped his chair slowly back, and struggled to push himself up. Sunny held out a hand to stop him. “No, no, relax. You’ve been cooking all day. It’s my turn.”
“What, I’m going to just sit here like a bump on a log? I can help.”
Together they scraped and stacked the plates, and brought everything inside. Joe stood leaning against the kitchen counter while Sunny rinsed, the warm water from the faucet running through her fingers like a soothing balm.
“So have you given any thought to my suggestion?” he asked, his voice coming in loud and clear over the clanging of dishes.
“Which one, Joe? You seem to have a lot of those,” she shouted back.
“Come on, kiddo. You know what I’m talking about. You can’t pretend that something doesn’t need to be done. Sooner or later Rick is going to force your hand, one way or another. Better that the hand he tries to force knows which direction to push back.”
“You know how I feel, Joe. And let’s just say I did want this place, that I did want to do all that stuff you’ve dreamed up. I still don’t have the money to do it. In fact, my savings are disappearing faster than a sneeze through a screen door, as my mom used to say.”
Joe responded with a weak laugh. “My years ahead are few, you know.”
Sunny quickly turned off the faucet. “What the hell does that mean, Joe? Are you okay?”
“Fit as a fiddle, and twice as squeaky,” he said with a little cackle. “I’m just saying,” he continued, clearing his throat, “what use does an old man like me have for money?”
“I don’t want your money, Joe. I don’t want any of this.”
“So you keep saying. But we can do this. I don’t have much, but perhaps with a loan or two we might just be able to make it work. I’ve already spoken to the folks down at the bank.”
“But, Joe …”
“But nothing. Just come outside and sit for a minute, and listen to me.”
Sunny wiped her hands on the dishtowel and followed the old man back out to the porch. In the purple dusk she could barely make out the silhouettes of the fishing boats returning from their last run of the day. Layla and Sky and Kat were seated on the grass, their backs to the house.
“Now, use your brain,” Joe said as he pulled out a chair for Sunny. “What is Rick asking you for?”
Sunny repeated the last amount Rick had quoted for his half of the property.
Joe sat down next to her, Sangiovese the cat leaping out of nowhere and into his lap. “And this doesn’t seem like a steal to you?”
“How would I know? All I know is that I don’t trust the guy.”
“Well you can trust me. I know. This is a bargain. Just the land itself is almost worth that.”
“So why is he selling so cheap?”
“That, I couldn’t tell you. But it seems as though he’s certainly desperate for cash. Who knows what type of things he’s messed up in? And who wants to know? Not me.”
“Me neither.” A vision of Rick’s seedy smile popped into Sunny’s head.
“So, anyway, like I say, this is a thing too good to pass up. Look at it this way,” he said as he stroked Sangiovese’s long fur with his gnarled hand. “We become partners, you and I. Sunny and Joe. We get the place, we fix it up, we get the business humming, and then you can do what you want. You can sell for a nice profit and pay me back and say goodbye, or …”
Joe left his last thought unsaid. Sunny slowly brushed the crumbs off her favorite Afghan tablecloth and onto the wooden porch. She knew a decision needed to be made. And she would make one. Eventually. Soon. She rose and stood behind Joe’s chair, and bent down to circle his bony shoulders with her arms. “Thanks, Joe. I really mean it. I appreciate your ideas, but I really can’t take your money. I’ll figure things out. Promise.”
Joe didn’t answer. The two of them just stayed there, frozen together, their eyes turned toward a perfectly round beacon of a moon rising into the sky over the dark Sound.
22
The unmistakable smell of musky cologne crept through the crack of the door like a thief, stealing away any last shred of safeness Zara had been able to hold onto during the past few weeks. She had seen the big black car pull up to the house and, with legs that shook like reeds in a windstorm, had positioned herself on the other side of the wall from where her father now sat alone with Faheem. Her mother and sister were out, off to the Thursday market with the rest of the family. She half-prayed they would return early to disrupt this discussion that seemed to be turning ugly, fast. But their absence was what was allowing her to be alone in the kitchen to listen in on what was being said, and her fear of not knowing her fate was far greater than her fear of the spiteful words coming from Faheem’s mouth.
The conversation had begun with the usual niceties—welcome to our home, how is your health, how is your family’s health, let me pour you some tea—the politeness that one shows another regardless of how one feels inside. But it wasn’t long before things took a sharp turn.
It was clear from their words that Zara’s father had still not given Faheem an answer. For that, Zara was grateful. But just as she had feared, it was also clear that the arrogant man was not about to allow her father to refuse.
“You cannot seem to control your daughter.” Zara could hear the so
und of Faheem biting down on a mouthful of nuqul, the sugar-coated almonds he would have been offered, and could picture him leaning back on the pillows as if he were the head of this household instead of her father.
“My daughter is a good girl.” Her father spoke with pride and assurance. “She would never dishonor her family.” It took everything Zara had to keep herself from running out and hugging him tightly around the waist, as she had done as a child. Instead she just slid down the wall and sat quietly on the floor.
“Well, if you cannot control her, I can.”
“I do not need your help.”
Zara’s heart leapt up into her throat. That her father would dare to speak in this manner to a man like Faheem was a shock. She feared what would come next. But Faheem simply laughed, a whiny laugh that made him sound like an injured cat.
“I mean no disrespect, Haji Faheem,” her father said. “It is simply that my family is not prepared to make a commitment at this time.”
Zara could not believe her ears. Surely her father knew of this man’s power, and his unyielding will to get what he wanted. She had hesitated to speak up about her own confrontation with Faheem, as she would never have done anything to put her family in a bad situation. Yet now her father seemed to be doing that all by himself. She tried to imagine the look on Faheem’s face.
“Is it that my bride price is not good enough? I have offered cash, a car for you, even furniture for your wife. You and I both know that I bring more wealth and status to this family than you could ever have imagined.”
“It is not that. Your offer is a very generous one, haji saib. It is just that my daughter is very serious about her studies. That is the reason she is not eager to wed now.”
Faheem let out a little snort, like a donkey. “She is so serious that she hasn’t even been near the university for weeks?”
Zara could hear no response. She crawled on her knees to peer through the keyhole. Faheem sat like a king on a throne, his fancy green-and-white striped chapan draped over his thick arms. He slicked his black hair back and smiled smugly. “You see,” he said to her father, “already I know what she does, where she goes, who she sees. Do you know she goes by herself to that American coffeehouse, in Qala-e-Fatullah? I see her going there. A place full of khaareji, foreigners, the same ones who are trying to ruin our country. I know what also happens there, what kind of place it really is. And if your daughter continues to go there, she will soon be no better than a whore, and then you will not even be able to pay me to take her.”
Zara lurched back away from the keyhole, her face flushing with anger, her heart racing with dread.
“And did you know, my friend,” she heard Faheem say, “that there is also a boy who goes there? It is no coincidence. My people have seen them together before, at the university.”
“I’m sorry,” her father said softly, “but I cannot believe that my daughter would do anything to shame our family, or herself.”
“Then you are more of a fool than I thought.”
Zara heard the click of a lighter, and could smell the smoke from Faheem’s cigarette as it seeped into the kitchen. How she longed to rush out and beat her fists on the man’s chest. Instead she remained hidden, a silent tear for her father’s honor sliding down her warm cheek.
“All I ask for is some time,” she heard her father say. “Perhaps once she finishes her studies my daughter will be ready to wed.” Zara could detect the false civility in her father’s voice.
“But you do not seem to understand, my friend,” Faheem continued, his voice steady and low. “Your daughter is already mine. She was mine the first day I walked through this door. And now I apparently must be the one who is to keep her in line.”
Again she did not hear her father give an answer. But there was no mistaking the fury that was rising in Faheem like a deadly volcano on the verge of eruption.
“I have had enough of this disrespect from your family,” he hissed, “and I expect the entire matter to be resolved before the month is out. After all, you wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to your other little one, would you? I would hate to be forced into teaching you all a lesson you would regret learning.”
Zara could feel the bile rising from her stomach, and hurried to cover her mouth to keep the sound from her throat from giving her location away. She tilted her ear closer to the door.
“But for now,” Faheem was saying, “I will take care of first things first. I know what I must do. Soon your daughter will have nowhere to run for her little encounters. She will learn to know better than to disgrace me. Trust me, my friend. With just one phone call, everything will be over. I will end it now. And you and your daughter will be forced to come to your senses.”
Zara did not wait for her father’s reply. She began to frantically pace the tiled floor, circling the small room with hushed steps, desperately trying to keep her head straight. Perhaps she should just go, vanish to a place where nobody could find her. She was the problem, and if she became invisible, the problem would disappear as well.
She paused in front of the shelf where bowls and cups sat among the spices and teas that were the signs of her family’s daily life, where, from the corner in which the shelf met the wall, the faces of her sister and mother smiled at her from inside a gold frame. She thought back the day that photo was taken, at the henna party before her cousin’s wedding last year. She remembered Mariam’s delight at the intricate designs spreading across her small hands, and her mother’s beaming pride as others complimented her on her two daughters in their finest dresses. Yes, she thought as a tear slipped down her quivering cheek, she was certain about what she must do. It was the only solution, the only way to protect her family and put an end to Faheem’s ugly threats. There was no question about it. She had no choice but to leave.
But first she must warn Yazmina and the others. Who knows what Faheem meant by those words he’d spoken to her father? With just one phone call, everything will be over. She would tell them all to keep their eyes open for trouble. And, inshallah, she would find her Omar there, at the coffeehouse. If not, she would ask for their promise that word of her love would reach his ears. She tugged her scarf tightly around her head and ran out the door, past Faheem’s sleeping driver and into the crowded city streets.
Down roads thick with mud and people she rushed, pushing and weaving until she had been swallowed by the crowds, too busy coming and going and buying and selling to pay her much mind. As she darted through an opening in the crush, a sharp shout and a clatter of metal crashed at her ears.
“Are you blind, you stupid girl? Do you want to get me killed?” The boy picked his bike out of the gutter and shook his small fist at her, but Zara just kept running, his cries trailing off behind her like echoes from the everyday world she was leaving behind.
23
“You missed a spot.”
Sunny turned to see Joe on the lawn beside her, leaning heavily against the carved Afghan walking stick she had found for him inside the barn. “Very funny.” She brushed away the curls that had escaped from under her purple bandana and stood back to admire her work. The six-foot technicolor peacock splashed across the south side of the barn was worrying her a little. “He looks like he’s angry.”
“Well, he is supposed to be screaming,” Joe said.
“Screaming, yes. Angry, not so much.” Sunny placed her brush into the bucket of soapy water with the others.
“Well you can’t paint a smile on him and ask him to scream at the same time, can you?”
She cocked her head and squinted at her creation. “Maybe it’s the eyes. They’re too beady. He needs friendlier eyes.”
“He’s a bird. Birds have beady eyes.”
“Well maybe his beak is open too wide.”
“How else would we know he was screaming?”
“Have you ever actually seen a peacock scream, Joe?”
“Nope. Just heard them.”
“Me too.”
“Well then,
we will just have to keep our eyes open, won’t we?”
Sunny wiped her hands on her jeans. “No, Joe, you will just have to keep your eyes open. I hereby dub you the peacock spy. Me, I just want to paint.” Painting had always been Sunny’s favorite escape, and the bigger the canvas the better. She smiled to herself when she thought of how many times she’d painted and repainted the huge wall in front of the coffeehouse, trying so hard to get it just right, finally settling on an image that had haunted her from her last visit to Mazar-e Sharif, the thousands of white doves against the blue Afghan sky. She picked up the bucket of dirty brushes and circled the barn with Joe in tow. The rosebushes Sky had helped her plant needed watering, as it hadn’t rained in weeks. The pale peach variety they’d found was perfect, exactly like the ones she remembered from Kabul.
“Can I be of assistance?” Joe asked eagerly.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
“What?” Joe cupped his ear with his hand as a plane flew across the late morning sky.
“I said I’ve got it!” Sunny yelled. But the look on Joe’s face made her regret her tone. “Be careful,” she said, handing him the hose. “Don’t trip. I’ll be right back.”
By the time she emerged from the house with a tray, Joe was already seated safely on the lawn at the picnic table, Bear at his feet. “Chai?” she offered, as she arranged the pieces of her favorite tea set from Afghanistan in front of him.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Joe picked up a blue saucer and turned it upside down and back again, as if he were considering a purchase. “You know, these would look very nice in a tasting room.”
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