And so she did. She arrived at the ministry safely, and with her roses in hand. The gray-walled, somber building reminded her of the hospital where her mother had died, except for the layer of earthen dust that covered everything in Kabul. When she reached the minister’s waiting room, she found a young woman shrouded in a dark blue veil sitting behind a dilapidated metal desk. The minute she saw Sunny, she clicked off her computer screen. Sunny knew from the look in her eyes that she’d been on the Internet, probably chatting with someone, the only way a boy and girl could talk to each other freely in Kabul. The woman told her to sit, and from the cheap velour chair Sunny could easily see into the minister’s office, a lavish space covered in deep red rugs and lined with couches. Standing in the center of the room, a young woman wearing the clothes of her native tribe pleaded with what looked to be an assistant of the minister, while the minister herself sat at her desk and talked on the phone. Sunny couldn’t help but listen. Though her Dari was halting at best, she understood enough to pick up the gist of the girl’s story.
Yazmina had stared straight ahead, afraid to fall asleep on the long drive, afraid to look out the car’s window at the land passing by, afraid of what the man next to her might do even before she arrived in Kabul. She’d lost track of time. Had it been two days? Or three? Her fate was not her own. First her parents, murdered by the Taliban years before. Then her husband, killed three months ago by a land mine while walking with his goats in the field. Now what would happen when her “owner” found out about the life inside her? She knew the answer: He would beat her, or worse. It would be impossible to pretend that her new husband was the father. Her stomach was already round; she could rely only so long on the heavy drape of her dress to save her from showing.
The man next to her suddenly moved, making her jump. He laughed and put his arm around her. She knew what he was thinking: She was no longer a girl and he could take her sexually without her new owner ever finding out. She pulled away, her heart pounding against her chest, and realized then that they must’ve entered the outskirts of Kabul. The wall along the road was mottled with bullet holes, and there were posters for Coca-Cola and for campaigns for Parliament. The man put his hand on her leg. She screamed, and he put his other hand over her mouth. She continued to look away and noticed the blue of the sky as he moved a hand to her breast then down her belly toward her legs. He stopped.
“What is this?” he yelled. “What have you done, you bitch whore?” His face was so close that Yazmina could feel his hot breath.
Yazmina saw the driver’s eyes on her in the rearview mirror.
“What is it?” he barked.
“This mother of a whore is pregnant,” the younger man said with disgust, not taking his eyes from Yazmina. He spit at her, and then slapped her hard across her face.
Yazmina looked down, tears streaming, her face swelling, her nose bleeding. She put a protective hand across her belly.
The car stopped short, sending dirt and dust past the windows.
“She is worth nothing,” the old man said. “Get rid of her.”
The man next to Yazmina pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, but the old man said, “No, no blood in the car. Get her out.” He turned to Yazmina. “You stupid bitch. I should cut your uncle’s throat for stealing from me. And then take your little sister. Now that tight little virgin would be worth something.”
Yazmina struggled to open her door to get away, but she felt a heavy punch in her back that sent her sprawling to the ground. She could taste the blood in her mouth, feel the dirt sting her eyes. She felt the kick in her side, something hard and heavy hitting her head, her face pushed into the ground, then she heard the car speed away as everything went black.
The woman’s name was Yazmina, she told the minister’s assistant, and she was from Nuristan, which Sunny knew was an area in the north that bordered the western edge of Pakistan. It was said that the people there were among the most beautiful in all Afghanistan and direct descendants of Alexander the Great. Jack had worked up there for a time, and Sunny remembered him telling her that the area was originally called Kafiristan—kafir meaning “unbeliever” or “infidel,” and stan meaning “land of.” A hundred years ago the people were forced by the Muslims to convert to Islam, and the name of the area was changed to Nuristan, the land of light. In her coffeehouse, Sunny had more than once heard one Afghan insulting another by calling him a kafir.
She listened to Yazmina explaining how an old beggar woman had helped her up and walked with her from the far edges of Kabul to the police station. They struggled with what to do with the young woman whose blood was dripping down her face, staining her chaderi. Should they take her to the hospital and risk being blamed for her condition? She was too ashamed to tell them what had happened, and they were, in turn, uncomfortable with her tears, embarrassed. Matters of women were handled within the family, not out on a busy street. So they dropped her off at the Women’s Ministry, where someone would attend to her.
Her eyes ran with grateful tears as the assistant glanced over her shoulder to the minister, who seemed to be winding up her phone call, and whispered to Yazmina that she could sleep in the old Kabul Beauty School, now a dorm, until they were able to find a family to take her in, perhaps as a cleaning lady.
Another woman might’ve responded by putting her hand on her chest, or clasping her hands together, in both worry and gratitude. But this young woman responded reflexively, impulsively, Sunny thought, and gave herself away. She put an open hand on her belly, and Sunny understood what she was protecting there: She was pregnant. So that was why she’d been thrown out of the car. She’d omitted this detail when she told her story, and if the minister’s assistant had figured it out, she didn’t let on.
The minister hung up the phone and rose from her chair, walked around her desk, and said, “Only one or two nights, Alayah. Not until she finds a family. There are rules. We are not running a hotel for runaways.”
“But,” Alayah said, “she has nowhere to go. You know what will happen.”
Sunny understood what was not being said: that if Yazmina was sent back to her family, it would mean death, and that if she wasn’t, she’d probably end up as a beggar or prostitute. And Sunny knew that once her pregnancy had become too obvious to conceal, the baby would surely die, and she would probably be killed, too.
“There are rules,” the minister said haughtily. “Besides, who knows if what she’s saying is the truth.” She looked at Yazmina with disdain, probably thinking what everyone thought of girls like this in Kabul—that it was their fault they’d been kicked out of their homes, that they’d taken a lover or had refused sex with their husbands or had done something else to deserve this treatment. “Two nights. That’s it. And be sure to do the paperwork, Alayah.”
The injured woman thanked the minister, kissing her left cheek, then right, and then left again, three times in the customary fashion.
“Come, I’ll show you the way,” said Alayah.
As Yazmina was escorted out, she glanced at Sunny but quickly looked away. In that moment, Sunny was struck by the defiance in her stunning green eyes, that even after all that had befallen her, this woman was still proud.
Sunny paid her respects to the minister as best she could. She would’ve told the minister where she could shove her bureaucratic attitude, but her mind was on the desperate woman and her haunting eyes.
That night, alone in her bed, Sunny couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t shake the image of that woman locked in the car with those thugs. She couldn’t bear the thought of what would happen to her and her baby once it was born. Shit, she thought, the last thing she needed, the last thing the café and her customers would tolerate, was an annoying newborn crying all the time. But early the next morning, she returned to the Women’s Ministry to inquire about the young woman. When she found her in the dorms, Sunny offered her a room in her home and work in the coffeehouse. Only then did the young woman raise her eyes from the floor and l
ook straight at Sunny to say in Dari, “Thank you, may God light your way,” as she placed her open hand on her belly.
Yazmina woke to find the sun streaming through her small window, washing her yellow walls white. She rose from her toshak, the soft mat she used for sleeping at night, and that, with the many pillows Sunny had provided, she used for resting during the day. Outside, a soft veil of snow covered every surface, including the thin, frail branches of the young pomegranate tree, making them glisten in the morning sun. Winter had begun, but in Kabul, which sat near the heavens, nestled in the valley of the tall mountains, the snow was light. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back with Layla come spring, walking to get water from the well, the goats braying on the far hill. Even through the window the sun felt warm, though her worries for her sister sent shivers through her. If Layla was still safe at home and not yet stolen by the men who had taken Yazmina, the snows would already be deep in the mountains, preventing anyone from getting in or out until the spring. The snow, which cut them off from traders every winter, for which they had to prepare long in advance and pray they had enough food, water, and wood to get them and their animals through, now would provide protection. Yazmina prayed for a particularly harsh winter, so that she had time to make a plan to reach Layla once the sun was warm and the banks of the Alingar River overflowed.
She knew by the light that she had slept through the sunrise adhaan, the call to prayer, and wondered if the muezzins had lost their voices. For the call came so loudly that every time she heard it, five times a day since she had been in Kabul, she almost jumped out of her skin. She was not attuned to the magnified voices that rose from the highest minaret in every mosque and filled the air. Their song was staggered, not sung as a chorus, voices in the sky competing like the hawks that dipped and swooped over the goat herds back home. She raised her eyebrows and sighed. Perhaps, in time, she would become more comfortable here. Or as comfortable as could be expected given that she was so far from home and had never been in such a foreign place.
She washed her face in the bowl sitting on the cabinet for her clothes. She’d been invited to use the bathroom down the hall, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not knowing whom she’d run into and when. Indoor plumbing seemed unnecessary anyway. Getting water from the well and using the outdoor toilet was easy enough. But that shower, now that was a thing of beauty!
She took the brush from the cabinet and let loose her single braid, as thick and long as the grasses that stood by the river back home. She shook her head so that her black hair fell loose, then brushed it, slowly and carefully, treating it as if every inch held a story. One stroke and then another, until it was smooth and silky, like the pajamas she slept in. They were different from the ones she wore at home, which she had made for herself. The stitching was too regular, too perfect to have been made by a young woman’s hand. Obviously, they were made by machine, like everything in Kabul.
When Sunny had presented the room to her, she had been particularly proud of the full-length mirror that was framed in a shiny dark wood and sat on its own four legs. But Yazmina thought of it as vanity and had turned it away once Sunny had departed. Today, though, she turned it to face her. She put her hands on her stomach, where the life inside was growing with each new day, and looked at herself. She pulled the sleeping gown over her head, removed her undergarments, and there was her body, which she was seeing naked, in full, for the first time in her life. She was slim, her legs long and lean, her right leg still red and scraped from knee to thigh where she had fallen on the pebbled road when she was pushed out of the car. Her arms were slender but muscled from daily chores, still bruised by the rough grip of strong hands. She looked at her breasts, which were larger than usual because of her condition, but nothing like the long, low ones of Halajan, the old busybody who lived next door to the café and had an opinion about everything. Yazmina thought that woman had been sent by God himself to test her patience. No, Yazmina’s breasts were still “as glowing and round as the midnight moon,” as Najam used to tell her. She saddened at the memory of her husband’s face, his kisses and his touch. She would never feel such sweetness again.
But she was with his baby. She turned to the side to look at her belly and stroked it with her two hands. She took a deep breath as if the air would give her all she and her baby needed to thrive. This will be my baby, she thought, my Najam, or if a girl, Inshallah, God willing, Najama (for Yazmina was convinced it was a girl, perhaps because it was Najam’s wish to have many children—a son or two, of course, but also a daughter who had the same light in her eyes as Yazmina). Not only would the baby be named after her father, but she would be a star lighting up the night sky, as the name meant. Najam’s seed was part of her, and she would cherish it and die trying to protect it. Now, with everything that had happened since, only God could be sure the baby lived and would be born healthy.
But she had to be very careful to keep the baby hidden from all eyes until she could hide it no longer. What if Miss Sunny found out? She would be thrown from the coffeehouse onto the streets. If that chokidor, Ahmet, suspected that she might be with child, those stern brown eyes of his would grow black with disgust and anger. Even Bashir Hadi, the kindest man she had ever known besides her own Najam, would be shamed by her state. For, according to the rigid, unspoken rules, if no husband was present, then the father’s identity was uncertain and anyone was suspect. She had to do whatever was necessary to keep her growing body covered. Maybe by the time the baby came into the world, some miracle would happen to allow her to raise her child without danger to either of them.
The sun had moved a little higher and Yazmina knew that it was time to get to the café. The morning people would be sitting down already, with their newspapers and computers, talking in Dari and English, French and Arabic, about many things. Some words she recognized no matter what the language, like President Karzai, and some Bashir Hadi explained to her, like Christmas, a holiday that was coming soon. The kitchen would be busy, the café noisy, and she would be needed to set the tables, clear the tables, wash the dishes, and sweep the floors. She got dressed quickly, first putting on thin white pants with lace on the bottom, and then the long skirt and top, all of which Sunny had bought her. The fabric scratched as if it had been woven from the hair of a horse. She slipped her feet into pink plastic shoes that were decorated with blue and yellow flowers, and covered her head and face below the eyes with the lovely lavender chaderi that the assistant at the Women’s Ministry had given her.
Before she left her room, she went to the low little table next to her toshak. It was intricately carved in the dark wood of Nuristan, her home. It had a lovely woven piece of brightly colored cloth on top to protect it. And on top of that sat a little tin box that Sunny had provided for precious things that Yazmina might collect along the way, as if Sunny had known what was in Yazmina’s pocket.
She opened the box, took out Layla’s prayer beads, carved wood and gold on red string, and she kissed them, then cupped them in her hands and whispered the poem of her mother’s, “But it is God’s heart, Layla, that makes my love for you forever.”
Men dressed in Western clothes—suits with ties and jeans with jackets—as well as shalwaar kameezes and turbans, stood at the café’s door waiting, while others leaned against the counter, sipping espresso from colorful demitasse cups. The tables were filled; their dark wooden chairs held men talking, reading the newspaper, and eating eggs with home-fried potatoes. Bashir Hadi was behind the counter making his famous coffees while Halajan flipped pancakes on the grill and Yazmina filled syrup bottles and cleaned tables. The hubbub, the smell of coffee and grease, of bacon and bread, the brightly painted walls, the fabrics draping each table, the warmth and color of the café, all conspired to fill Sunny with longing. What should have provided her the greatest satisfaction—that this place was hers and hers alone, that she had seen to every detail from the walls of ochre, orange, green, and mauve to the shiny copper espresso machine,
from her prized generators that kept the electricity flowing even when Kabul’s shut down to the bokhari that kept the place warm on a cold day like this—also made her miss the one thing she wanted most.
One day soon, when she least expected it, she imagined Tommy would walk right through her door. She’d be standing just the way she stood now, leaning against the counter, yakking with Bashir Hadi, something about the crazy customers or when the meat delivery would arrive, and she’d hear the door open and see Bashir glance over her shoulder and then back at her, and then she’d hear the door slam, and she’d get a feeling. She’d just know. She’d turn around, and there he’d be, with that megawatt smile of his.
She let out a snort, hoping nobody heard it over the fray. Of course he wouldn’t walk in anytime soon, because he’d been gone only two months. His assignments took three, sometimes four months, and then he’d come home for as many weeks, at most. Tommy, you fool, she wanted to rail at him when her longing was especially fierce. How could you stay away from me for so long? For what? For adventure? The thrill? The money? They’d come to Kabul together five years before, to find themselves and a life together away from their hick town of Nowheresville, America. There they were white trash. Here they were royalty. But then Tommy found contract work in the south, first doing security for an NGO—a nongovernmental organization—then training the Afghan military, and finally becoming a sniper. He was paid more than he’d ever imagined making in a lifetime, so he would be gone for long stretches at a time. Sometimes he’d call telling her he had a weekend off and they’d both fly to Dubai, which was surprisingly easy and worth every penny, for furtive lovemaking in a fancy, high-rise hotel. But mostly it was long stretches of waiting, trying to live her life, pretending she was independent and strong when she was just a woman spending her life waiting. For a man. So, who was the real fool, she asked herself with disgust, wiping her hands on her apron. You, Sunny Tedder, you.
A Cup of Friendship Page 2
