A Cup of Friendship

by Deborah Rodriguez

  She remembered standing back, paintbrush in one hand and the other hand on her hip, trying to look at her work objectively. And all she could think was that if only she’d had a better blue, it might have been something. As it was, with the sun’s rays on it, the nude figure lying in the forest literally shimmered. Surrounding the figure were large palms and flowers and animals very simply wrought like folk art, primitive, an outsider’s view of paradise. Her friends stood, openmouthed, awestruck, at the painting. It was beautiful. It was lush and vibrant. And it was going to get her into one heck of a mess.

  You just don’t paint your principal in the nude.

  For that’s exactly who the naked woman was. It was Mrs. McQueen’s face on a completely nude body, still wearing her horn-rims but without her shoulder-padded suits and sensible shoes. It was Mrs. McQueen looking very postcoital, reclining on her side, up on her elbow, head in her hand, her other hand covering her crotch.

  Standing in her courtyard now, thousands of miles and worlds away from her small town, Sunny decided she’d paint her wall herself. But not with Colonial Blue or American Mustard, or whatever the hell those colors were. She’d paint it with her own oils. A mural. Her heart caught in her throat with excitement, and she ran inside to begin sketching. She would paint the street side of the wall with something bold and simple so that it would be easy to identify the coffeehouse, and she would paint the wall facing the windows with an elaborate scene, so that when she looked out she could pretend, if only for one moment, that the wall didn’t exist.

  It was the same late afternoon and Yazmina stood before her mirror. She was glowing. This baby, now that she was over the sick period, was making her hair shine, her cheeks rich with color, and her smile broad. And yet, the same baby was making her terribly worried, though nobody looking at her would’ve ever known. Her dark, heavy dresses and her long chaderi hid her pregnant stomach, but soon the day would come when the baby would want to show itself. And then what? Her smile faded. She never understood before the shame that pregnant women felt, but she understood it now. Why would anyone believe this was her husband’s baby? She would bring shame to everyone, especially Bashir Hadi and Ahmet. Everyone would think she was a prostitute. If she was not killed for being pregnant, she would certainly die in childbirth as so many women did. But, perhaps, Inshallah, Muhammad would watch over her and see to their safety. And in Muhammad’s absence, since he had many more important things to do, she had Halajan, who could move mountains almost as well.

  And what about her sister, Layla? Was she still at home with their uncle? Had the snows been enough to block the roads and prevent anyone from going out or coming in? Or had the sun been stronger this winter and allowed the drug lord to come for her, too? Not a day went by that she didn’t pray to Allah for Layla’s well-being as much as that of her own baby. She had to find a way to ask Sunny to talk to her friend Mr. Jack. He would know people. He would be able to reach Layla before the spring. But Sunny was already keeping one secret for her. To ask her for another deed? It was too much.

  And then Halajan was at her door as if her thoughts had conjured her.

  She was frantic. “Yazmina, the pipes! We are flooding! Ahmet is at prayer. I need your help. Come!”

  Yazmina grabbed a scarf to cover her head, and then followed Halajan to the bathroom down the hall, opened the door, and found herself standing in two inches of cold water. The toilet was running nonstop, pumping water out of its tank and onto the floor. Halajan opened the back and pulled a lever and it stopped pumping. Then she let the lever go and it began pumping water again, this time spraying water onto her.

  “Here,” she said, “you hold this to stop the water, and I’ll be right back. And here, you’re getting soaked. Put this on.”

  She slipped her apron over her head and put it over Yazmina’s and tied it for her. Then she left. And Yazmina was left alone standing in the icy water, with one hand holding the toilet lever. The other she put in the apron pocket for warmth. There was something there. She pulled it out. It was a folded piece of paper. It was wet from the spray of water, so she put it under the apron, in the pocket of her own dress, for safekeeping.

  Soon Halajan reappeared with Ahmet, who went to work without a smile or a word.

  He fixed the toilet, replacing a plastic part that had broken, and Yazmina was amazed at how resourceful he was. Yazmina mopped up the water and cleaned the bathroom. She was soaked after the ordeal, her pants and dress wet from her ankles to her knees.

  “This will need more work to prevent it from happening again,” said Ahmet, “so there will be no trip to the Mondai-e today.”

  “We will take a bus,” said Halajan.

  “You will, please, not go without me,” he answered sternly. “It just isn’t safe any longer, for two women alone. And besides—”

  “Besides what?”

  “It isn’t right. And he’s—”

  Yazmina wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but she could feel their anger.

  “He is what, Ahmet?”

  “Just promise me that you will not go again to the market without me to accompany you.”

  Halajan said nothing, but shook her head, her jaw clenched and her eyes as tight as the slits of the lizards that sat on the rocks by the river back home.

  And Ahmet said, “She is wet, Mother.”

  “Yes, you don’t want to catch a cold,” said Halajan, finally looking at Yazmina.

  “I have nothing to change into. My other shalwaar kameez is drying, too. I washed it last night.”

  “Ach, you need more than two changes of clothes. We will go to Chicken Street for more, perhaps tomorrow,” she said, eyeing Ahmet. “Right now, come with me.”

  Yazmina followed Halajan to her house, which was directly adjacent to the coffeehouse and within the compound, so they didn’t have to leave the gate.

  “Please come in,” said Halajan. “Let’s get you something to wear and then some chai and badan,” referring to the sweet tea and almonds. She took off her head scarf and her own wet kameez, allowing her arms to be exposed to Yazmina, comfortable the way women were in Kabul when they were with each other in the privacy of their own homes. She wore a white T-shirt with a large red heart and some English words in black letters.

  What are the words on that T-shirt? thought Yazmina. And look, her hair is short! Had she cut it herself?

  “I like it this way. Much easier to keep clean,” said Halajan as if she were reading Yazmina’s mind. She ran a hand through her hair. “Please, you be comfortable, too. Give me your scarf and the apron and then I’ll be back to exchange your pants and dress for dry ones.”

  She took off her scarf and handed it to Halajan, revealing her long, thick braid of shiny black hair. As she took off the apron, she said, “But no chai, thank you, for it makes my stomach ill.”

  Halajan took the clothes and left. Now alone, Yazmina could see that Halajan’s home was warm and inviting, filled with colorful pillows and fabrics, pictures on the walls, shiny draperies with gold threading, and lovely furniture. Surprising, given the tattered clothes the old woman wore to the coffeehouse each day. There were several beautiful rugs on the floor and toshaks lining the walls. Next to one was a low table, beautifully carved with inlaid wood, and another high chest with many drawers against the far wall.

  Then Halajan reappeared with clothes draped over her arm. “Come,” she said, “take off those wet clothes and put these on.”

  But Yazmina didn’t want Halajan to see her belly and how it had grown since she last saw it. She turned around and started to lift her dress over her head, but then remembered the letter, stopped, and took it out of her pocket.

  “This is yours. It was in your apron and I—”

  “Is this what you do in my home?” asked Halajan, her voice rising as she stood up, visibly upset. “You sneak and see things you shouldn’t?” She grabbed the paper from Yazmina’s hand.

  “No, no. I only wanted to keep it safe. The w
ater might’ve ruined it. I hope the ink has not smeared and it can still be read.”

  “Besides, it isn’t even mine.”

  “Really? It has your name on it.”

  Halajan’s eyes widened. She unfolded the letter, looked at it quickly, and then put it into her own pocket.

  “I’ve seen you at the market talking with the tailor. He seems like a very nice man,” Yazmina said.

  “It’s none of your business! You must promise never to mention anything to anyone about him or the letters.”

  “I would never. I promise.”

  “Now change your wet clothes.”

  Yazmina was braver then, knowing a secret of Halajan’s. Still, she turned away to take off her wet clothes and put on the shalwaar kameez that Halajan handed to her. It was beautiful, a lovely green, vivid and so silky that it clung to her round stomach, revealing its condition. She turned around, holding her wet clothes in front of her but not so close that they would soil the beautiful clothing she had on. She wondered why Halajan never wore clothing like this, only her brown burlap sacks.

  “Yazmina, you look beautiful. Why don’t you keep it and wear it?”

  “Thank you, but no, I couldn’t.”

  “But why not? An old woman like me has no use for such a color. It is yours—”

  “Why not? Here is why.” And she took the wet clothes away from in front of her body and there, for the whole world to see, was her very big stomach, looking low and close to ready to give birth.

  Halajan sat, as if the wind had knocked her down. “Of course.” She just stared, then closed her eyes and shook her head. The baby would be coming soon. She could imagine her son’s words upon finding Yazmina this way; she imagined the anger on his face, his features dark and reddening, his mouth almost frothing like a tiger’s in a goat field, and all that had sustained her—her desire to be herself, to be modern, to be open-minded—vanished like a specter. Finally she spoke her fears, spitting the words, without thinking of their poison. “Don’t you see what is going to happen? You will bring shame upon yourself. You will be called a whore.” She stood up. “You will be beaten. You could be killed. Let’s just hope that your child, Inshallah, will be born a boy. Because otherwise, life for it will be very short.”

  Yazmina looked at Halajan through wide, shocked eyes. She couldn’t believe the words she’d just heard. This was not the woman she’d come to know and love.

  “But Hala—”

  “Don’t you see? I cannot protect you!” She collapsed onto her knees on the rug.

  “Halajan, I don’t expect you to. I will bear the shame if I have to.”

  “Don’t be stupid, girl. They will throw acid in your face. They will not only call you a whore, they will treat you as one. My own son, Ahmet—”

  “He is a good man. He will—”

  “He will feel betrayed and ashamed, and he will turn on us both. Didn’t you hear him just now? Forbidding me to go to the market without him? Because he doesn’t like Rashif? He has a good spirit but a mind like stone. He cannot shed the old ways.”

  “Then you and Sunny will—”

  “Stop and listen! I am nothing. And Sunny can protect you for only so long. She can’t stay in Afghanistan forever. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what I think, or what you think. It doesn’t matter that women deserve to be treated better than dogs. Kabul, this country, is too big for you, for me, for a baby. The only way …”

  “Yes,” Yazmina pleaded, “what is it?” She clasped her hands, almost in prayer, in front of her chest.

  “Is to let me take it after it is born, when it is strong enough, to the hospital, and give it to them. Tell them I found it, and let them do with it what they want.”

  “I cannot believe my ears!” Yazmina cried. “You have cared for me as your own.”

  “That is exactly why the baby must go. To protect you. To save you. If anything ever happened to you … My own son, my dear Ahmet, he will not allow—”

  Yazmina dropped her head, and her heart dropped, too. Somehow, since she’d come to Sunny’s coffeehouse, she’d begun to feel that good things were possible. But she herself was aware of the shame her condition would bring.

  Halajan said, “When the baby is born, I will get rid of it.”

  “You cannot do that! I have already lost one.…”

  “What do you mean? You had a baby before this?”

  Yazmina shook her head. “No, my little sister, Layla, who is now twelve years old. By the time the snows have melted, the men who took me will come for her. I cannot lose two.”

  Halajan nodded. “This I will tell Miss Sunny. Maybe Jack can help you. But the baby you carry, she is already gone.”

  Yazmina began to sob—for the baby that was doomed before it was born, and for Halajan and how, as independent as she was, she could not move mountains, after all. She wept in hope, too, that Mr. Jack might help get Layla. Halajan offering to ask him was as if Allah had heard her prayers! With sadness and optimism, she wept for all the daughters of Afghanistan.

  Halajan went to her and held her head in her arms and said, “There is nothing more I can do.”

  Yazmina nodded slightly and said, “I understand.” She raised her head and looked at Halajan’s aged yellow eyes, her skin like a lizard’s, wrinkled from the years of sun and cigarettes. She would never let Halajan take her baby. She would leave before it was born and find Dr. Malik or someone who would help her. But she owed Halajan for keeping her secret.

  “And in exchange for your help, perhaps there is something I can do for you,” Yazmina said.

  “For me?” Halajan laughed. “What help would I need?”

  “Maybe not today, but one day.”

  “ ‘One day’ is a long way off, and I am already halfway to paradise,” Halajan said as she impulsively put her hands in her pockets. She looked at Yazmina, then nervously turned away.

  “What is it?” asked Yazmina.

  “There is something.…” Halajan’s voice trailed off, as if bringing herself to ask was more difficult than climbing the Hindu Kush.

  Yazmina waited. When Halajan said nothing, she was reminded of Layla’s shyness, the reticence of a little girl who wanted something but was hesitant to ask for fear of the response.

  So she implored, “What is it, Halajan? You can ask anything of me.”

  Halajan looked directly at her, let out a deep sigh, and whispered, “You read, don’t you?”

  “I do. Since I was a child.”

  “But how is it that you learned to read?”

  Yazmina felt her color rise. People were narrow-minded when it came to judging others, especially people like her who were different from those in Kabul. “And I write, too. Do you think because I am jungli, as you would say—a backward girl from the mountains—that I am ignorant, uneducated? My mother taught me to read—to appreciate poetry and good stories. I am uneducated otherwise, so you are correct.”

  “I meant no judgment. It is just that you are such a young woman to be so educated.”

  But Yazmina always knew when people were telling stories—like when Layla said she’d finished her chores when really she just wanted to run the goats outside on a sunny day—and she thought Halajan was telling her one now.

  Slowly Halajan pulled the letter from her pocket. “Now that I know that you can read …” she said, trailing off.

  Was it possible? Yazmina understood now. Halajan couldn’t read! And therefore how had she read Rashif’s dear letters? Had she been able to ask someone to read them to her? Or had she never read even one because of the risk of shame she’d have brought to her family by acknowledging that the letters even existed.

  “Yes, I could read your letters to you. And if you’d like, I can teach you to read them yourself. And help you to write him back.”

  “Show me,” said Halajan. “Read it. Go ahead, read it.”

  Yazmina opened the letter and read:

  Halajan my love,

  This week, much
has happened. I received a letter from my son in New York. He is well. His wife is with child. I am to be a grandfather! I dream of the day I will see him and his family.

  Also, I finished paying my bill for the new sewing machine and the generator that will run it. So I will have more money to spend on flowers for you.

  Six more were killed yesterday outside the Russian Embassy. This is only going to get worse. The struggle for Afghanistan has begun again, heightened by what’s going on in Iraq. I could never side with the Taliban or al-Qaeda, but I can see how the war in Iraq has created an entire army of orphan boys eager to be part of something, to find a kind of family.

  We are so lucky, you and I, my dear Halajan. We know the joys of real family. One day very soon, we will be together, you and I, and create a new one. Your Ahmet will like me. I know he will. And all the years apart will vanish like smoke in the night air.

  Please write back so I will know what’s in your heart. I long to hear from you. Seeing you once each week is wonderful but a letter from you would be as if Muhammad himself, peace be upon him, had written.

  Yours, Rashif

  Halajan had lowered her head. She was crying, tears that she’d probably kept deep in a well for all these years.

  “Halajan,” Yazmina said softly, “I have no desire to hurt you. You’ve helped me more than words can say. And now, I can offer you something in return.”

  “It has to be a trade,” said Halajan.

  “It is a trade. You’re keeping my secret.” She put her hand lovingly on her stomach and continued, “And asking Mr. Jack if maybe he can help my sister.”

  “No,” said Halajan. “Keeping your secret is a trade for keeping my secret. And asking for help to find Layla is what any good woman would do. But for the letters, something more.”

  Yazmina knew that this old woman’s pride was stronger than her own, so she thought about it, and yes, there was something Halajan could do for her.

  “Fabric,” she said. “I’d like you to help me buy some fabric.”