A Cup of Friendship

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “I am here! Merry Christmas, Halajan!”

  She couldn’t help but smile in return. What was it about some men? You had to smile back. But this was a very risky thing to do, for him to come here to talk to her face-to-face, a man to a woman. Luckily there were no Afghans in the room at the moment. On the other hand, that’s exactly what made Rashif stand out.

  “I knew you’d be happy to see me,” he said.

  “I am not.”

  “You look happy,” he said.

  “I pretend so as not to hurt your feelings.”

  “Well, thank you. It’s working.”

  “How did you get in, past the guard at the gate? And then past Ahmet at the door?”

  “I have a delivery—see?” He lifted his arm, which had a garment in a bag hanging over it. “For you, the new dress you bought for tonight. It needed altering, remember?”

  “My new dress?”

  “I had to think of something!”

  “Well, thank you, good-bye.”

  Rashif laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not staying. I have dinner with my family tonight. My cousins, whom I so want you to meet.”

  “Good, because I am busy. This is too much. Even I am afraid.”

  “Then I will leave,” Rashif said, quickly glancing over his shoulder to check for Ahmet, who was hanging up a guest’s coat. “But first”—he dug into his pocket and pulled out a letter—“this is for you.” He handed it to her.

  Instinctively, Halajan glanced toward Ahmet, who had come out of the closet but was busy with a group of UN workers who’d just arrived.

  She took the letter as quickly as possible and put it in the pocket of her apron. “Now go,” she said.

  Rashif took two steps toward the front door, but then turned back to her and handed her the garment bag. “I almost forgot. This is my Christmas gift to you. Wear it tonight, for me.”

  Halajan gasped. She looked at the wonderful man before her, wanting to put her hand on his cheek. But then she looked at Ahmet, who stood alone and stoic by the door, his eyes surveying the room while it filled with laughter and sounds of clinking glasses. For a moment, their eyes connected, but he quickly turned away from her. Was he pretending not to see? Was this his Christmas gift to her?

  “You, my Hala, have a beautiful night. I will say hello to Ahmet on my way out. That is him by the door, I know. I have seen him waiting for you in the market. And besides, he looks like you.”

  Halajan lost her breath. She had never felt so overwhelmed by love and by fear. People in Kabul disappeared for smaller social infractions than this. An Afghan man and woman, who were not married, talking in public? In front of a traditional son? In front of others? Thankfully, the only other Afghans in the café were Yazmina, who would close her eyes to this, and Bashir Hadi, who was deep in his kitchen, preparing the meal.

  “You must not,” she begged. “Please.”

  And then he was gone, stopping at the door to greet Ahmet. The older man was warm and offered his hand; the younger did not take it but instead stood like a tree—straight, tall, and unbendable.

  Halajan figured she had about three minutes to rush to the back and put on her new dress before her absence would be noticed. A new dress! After all these years. She would wear it as if it were crafted of Rashif’s letters themselves—with his words touching her from her skin through to her heart.

  Isabel took off her coat and scarf, feeling pretty in her dress and long gold-beaded Indian earrings that she’d bought on Chicken Street. It had been a long time since she’d gotten dressed up, and she wished there was someone she wanted to notice. She handed her things to the guard at the front door, who asked her to wait for his mother to come and seat her. Over the heads of others, she could see the old woman talking to an elderly Afghan gentleman. She smoothed her dress and adjusted her shoulders, as if shaking off her usual garb of safari pants and baggy V-neck sweater.

  She smiled at the door guard as he closed the closet door behind him. He simply stood, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder distance apart, as if he were a soldier. What a terribly serious boy, she thought. He reminded her of the aristocratic boys in London, the snooty ones who felt obligated to uphold their high-class legacy. Stuck up is what she used to call them.

  Finally the old woman greeted her, nervously.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

  “No worries,” answered Isabel.

  “He was just making a delivery. Sit here,” she said, with a plastic garment bag draped over her arm.

  Isabel hadn’t asked, but clearly the old woman felt the need to explain. Isabel was seated with Jack and Sunny, and leaned toward them and said over Frank Sinatra singing “The Little Drummer Boy,” “Looks like the old lady has a boyfriend.”

  “Halajan? Interesting.” Sunny frowned. “Ahmet would shit.”

  “Who’s Ahmet?”

  “The stiff one, over there,” Sunny said, nodding to the front door. “He’s her son. He guards the place.”

  “Why would he care? Especially if his mother is happy?”

  “Even today, it’s not allowed,” explained Sunny.

  “Because according to the Afghan ways,” said Jack, “a woman like Halajan, whose husband has died leaving her with a son, can only remarry if the son not only accepted it but arranged it.”

  “I tell you, I’ve witnessed firsthand in the past few days how women are treated here. It’s not new to me, and it exists all over the world, but it’s still shocking each and every time. But let’s not discuss it tonight. It’s a holiday!”

  “Tell us,” Sunny said, sympathetically. “Go on.”

  Isabel was hesitant, knowing how she could always be relied on to bring a party down. But she continued. “At the poppy fields, I saw a woman hit by a guard, and I was seen witnessing it. By the time I returned the following day, the woman was gone. Along with her baby.” She stopped, sipped some wine to mask the emotion welling up in her.

  “They disappear all the time,” said Jack. “Wasn’t directly because of you.”

  Isabel was stricken. She breathed out. She swigged back her wine. “Please, can we discuss something, anything, else?”

  “Well, we had been talking about love,” said Jack. “And how it just ain’t for everyone.”

  “Well, that’s rubbish!” said Isabel, putting on a smile.

  Sunny laughed. “It is!” And then in a fake British accent, she said, “Blimey rubbish!”

  “Making fun, are we?” asked Isabel.

  Now Jack looked directly at Sunny. “Trust me, love isn’t for everyone.”

  What a sweet man, Isabel thought, aware of his eyes on Sunny. Why, he’s in love with her!

  Sunny looked back at him silently, uneasily, and then sat up straight in her chair. “What are you talking about?”

  It was so obvious, Isabel thought, how she felt about him. She remembered feeling that way, too, a long time ago. Once. Maybe. And though she’d known Sunny for only a short time, she knew Sunny hadn’t a clue how she felt, or if she did, she wasn’t ready to face it.

  “I just know how it is, that’s all,” Jack said. “It’s tough to wait for someone to come around.”

  Sunny looked like the silly dog on her Christmas apron, her hackles standing straight up. “Do you mean Tommy? You think I’m pining away for Tommy?”

  Jack looked at Sunny as if his seat was uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t stand it one moment longer. “I wasn’t even thinking … Tommy! Are you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No! I’m not saying anything. You were the one who brought this up.”

  Then Jack put his hand on Sunny’s. Isabel took a breath. Their conversation had escalated so quickly in the way conversations like that did between two people whose feelings for each other had gone unspoken. They were ignoring Isabel completely, as if she weren’t even there. But she was noticing every detail, every unspoken word.

  “I’m just saying,” Jack said in a hushed voice, “
you know what I mean. This country is hard on people.”

  Isabel thought of excusing herself, to give the bloke a chance to say more, but she couldn’t move. This was just too good!

  Sunny looked at Jack. And Isabel wondered if she saw in Jack what Isabel did: that this man, who looked like a tough old codger, was warm and sweet and somebody you could get used to cuddling with. If you were one to cuddle with anybody. She looked down at Jack’s strong hand on Sunny’s and wished someone held her hand that way. Then Sunny pulled her hand away and got up from the table.

  She was flustered. “I have to help Halajan,” she said, and walked off toward the kitchen.

  Isabel used the moment to speak to Jack. “I know it’s none of my business, but she’s very special, isn’t she?”

  Jack looked at her and smiled. “If it weren’t Christmas Eve, I’d tell you that you’re right: It is none of your business. But, tonight, I’ll just say this: You’re one hell of an observer. I just don’t want to read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Sunny appeared with a tray but she didn’t look at Jack. “This is for you.” She placed several plates of delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres on the table. “Enjoy.”

  Isabel picked up a fork and said, “And to all a good night!”

  Rashif the tailor! In his café! Had that man been talking to his mother in the open? Ahmet would’ve stopped him at the door, but the café was filling up, there were people to greet, coats to check, and guns to store, and he was quickly distracted. And besides, there were no other Afghans in the room at the time except Yazmina and Bashir Hadi, who were busy working, so he was less concerned about his mother’s reputation.

  Only when Rashif offered his hand to him and wished him a Merry Christmas did Ahmet have the opportunity to say something. He’d wanted to say, “Stay away from my mother.” But what he said was, “Inshallah, Muhammad is watching over you.”

  Now, as he looked over to discover that his mother had put on a new dress, the very one that Rashif had carried over his arm, and he saw how it was tailored to fit her perfectly, he vowed then and there never to allow his mother to see Rashif again.

  Yazmina wore her new scarf tonight, shedding the chaderi. She wore her new dress, too, but under it wore another, so that her stomach wouldn’t show. But she wanted to be a part of the celebration and show Sunny respect for her holiday. The coffeehouse was wonderful—warm and welcoming on this cold, cold night. She loved the music that was playing and couldn’t wait to try some of Bashir Hadi’s potatoes and that very red compote of cranberries.

  Layla, she thought, if only you could see this. Such a room you have never seen! Layla, the days go by, but I will find some way to bring you to safety before it is too late.

  At the counter, she put four bowls on a tray and filled them with the squash soup that Bashir Hadi had made. It smelled of cinnamon and cardamom. She dotted each soup with a spoon of the whipped cream, exactly as he’d instructed. Then she carried the tray to a table by the front door, near where Ahmet was standing.

  She could feel his eyes on her. She dared not look at him.

  She served the soup to the two men and two women at the table. They were American. They were young and dressed nicely, the women with long hair that they wore without anything on their heads, the men handsome and slim. She wondered why they were here, so far from home. But their laughter and intense conversation showed they were enjoying themselves, even across the world from their families.

  She glanced then at Ahmet, without thinking. His eyes were on her. She looked away and then willed herself to look back. He nodded. Now there, she thought, is a man who could benefit from getting away from his mother and acting like his own man. What held him here? she wondered.

  But she was glad he was. He was so handsome, and the rare times he did smile, it was as if he did so only for her. She smiled, then, at him. He nodded, looked away.

  She turned to walk toward the kitchen, but something made her glance back over her shoulder. This time, he was smiling at her! She shivered, feeling as if cool water had washed over her.

  Then Halajan appeared in a beautiful new dress, the joy on her face as bright as the beads that decorated it. She wondered when Halajan bought it and who had made it, for it fit her so perfectly that it was clear it had been made with love and care.

  All of a sudden, it seemed, even with the Jackson Five singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” and the smell of turkey and sweet potatoes, the air changed in the Christmas coffeehouse. Candace had come through the door, with that electric-charged energy of hers. She whisked off her coat, handed it to Ahmet with a brusque “Treat it nicely, please,” and waited for Halajan to show her to her table.

  Sunny, busy serving and schmoozing (her word for Christmas Eve chatting up the customers), watched The Candace Show from the kitchen counter. She was wearing an emerald green one-shouldered silk dress, very fitted, with silver very-high-heeled sandals (her driver must’ve had to carry her from her car to the door), with long, fake (they had to be, right?) jeweled chandelier earrings. Her makeup was impeccable, her hair a cascade of blond. Only a woman like Candace would know the salon in Kabul. She walked to the table as if all eyes were on her—which they were. Candace was impossible to ignore. You envied her, you wanted to be her, and you wanted to kill her. She had the energy of a leader, but she didn’t seem to know what to do with it.

  Sunny went to greet her, but on the way she passed Halajan, who was wearing a colorful new dress.

  “Halajan, you look beautiful tonight!” said Sunny.

  “Yes, my new dress. It was time, and for this occasion, I agreed. As Rumi says, ‘The flower that—’ ”

  But she was interrupted by Candace, who’d walked up to them.

  “Sunny, it looks gorgeous in here!” she said. Then she added to Halajan, “You look very nice, too. May I sit? May I get something to drink, please? What a week I’ve had, you cannot imagine. Isabel! How are you?”

  Sunny glanced at Isabel, who smiled back at her with a little smirk. Not a word needed to be spoken. Because here was Candace, assuming that hers trumped anybody else’s bad week, as usual. They’d hung out together at the coffeehouse only a few times, but in Kabul people get close quickly, bound together by experience, fear, and loneliness. Time is compressed, relationships move fast, and the normal patterns of waiting before you talk intimately are forgone.

  Sunny said, “Try us,” as the women sat, joining Isabel at her table.

  Candace proceeded to bring them up-to-date about her fund-raising efforts for Wakil’s projects. She must’ve talked for an hour—they’d eaten two courses, Sunny had gotten up several times to work, serve and clear and pour “tea”—allowing for only a comment here, a response there. Candace seemed lonely, as if they were the only people she had spoken to in days.

  As she drank more and more wine, her voice grew louder; she threw her head back to laugh. Candace was getting a little plastered, and her talk turned from fund-raising to something more personal.

  Sunny noticed Halajan hovering near the table, listening. She couldn’t invite her to sit with customers, and Halajan would never join them if Sunny did. It just wasn’t done.

  “And we haven’t made love in a month,” Candace said softly. “I don’t know what’s happened. He’s always in the valley, he barely calls me because he has no cellphone reception out there, and when we do see each other it’s for me to hand over the checks.” She paused. Everyone at the table was silent. Then she shrieked, “I feel like a neglected wife! And I should know. I was one!”

  “You know, Candace, maybe he’s married,” Jack said.

  Interesting, thought Sunny, coming from him.

  That got Candace’s attention, but she laughed it off. “Then I’d be his lover, and we’d be fucking, right?”

  “Or maybe he’s not into people of the female persuasion,” Isabel said.

  “You mean, maybe he’s gay?” Now she wasn’t the only one laughing. The teasing, the wine, g
etting under Candace’s skin, made them all giggle like kids.

  “Honey, they’re all gay,” said Sunny, referring to the commonly held belief that Talib men had a habit of “enjoying” boys.

  “Oh, come on, that’s an old wives’ tale,” said Jack. “Not all Afghan men or even Talib men—”

  “He’s not gay,” insisted Candace.

  Bashir Hadi had come to the table, and Sunny became nervous about him overhearing this conversation. She tried to alert Isabel that he was standing behind her.

  “Come on there, Jack,” said Isabel. “It’s common knowledge that Talib men enjoy their boys terribly young—and as often as they can. All that repressed sexuality. It’s like your American priests.”

  “And your British ones,” said Candace.

  “Not all Afghan men,” Jack said again, more emphatically, glancing at Bashir Hadi, as he poured another round of wine.

  “I mean, perhaps he’s a Talib,” said Isabel, raising her brows, ribbing Sunny with her elbow.

  “Yes, that’s it, precisely,” said Sunny. “Maybe he’s training boys to become martyrs for the seventy-two virgins they’ll find in heaven.”

  “Now that’s funny. My lover, Osama bin Laden.” Candace downed another teacup of wine, threw her head back in laughter, and then nodded to Bashir Hadi to pour her another cup.

  It was her laugh that made Sunny’s heart go out to her. It wasn’t because of Wakil—nobody seriously thought he was anything but a guy who was all ego—but she knew that Candace did, indeed, see the ridiculousness of her situation, that she actually had a sense of humor. And given that she’d come a long way from Willow Springs, Missouri, perhaps she was just insecure. Somewhere deep down, so deep it wasn’t easy to fathom, Candace was okay. Sunny had known girls like her back home—all blustery and sexy and confident, and all of it covering the truth. She felt as if she had known Candace all her life. Maybe it was because they came from the same white trash neighborhood, a very particular location that made you want to get out but also made you feel like you didn’t deserve to.