A Cup of Friendship

by Deborah Rodriguez

  And then Isabel walked in, and after handing her parka to Ahmet, sat at the table available by the door.

  Sunny said, “Now, take your busybody body over there and sit with Isabel and be quiet.”

  So Candace did just that, and the two women kissed hello, and then Candace nodded toward Ahmet near the front door and said to her, “Ahmet likes Yazmina.”

  “And that’s my business because?” Isabel answered.

  “Because, we have to help! Come on, let’s be matchmakers. Ahmet has no father. Yazmina has no one at all.”

  “Candace, really,” Sunny said, joining them. “Foreigners shouldn’t butt in to their affairs. They will find a way.”

  Bashir Hadi brought over coffees on an etched metal tray.

  “What about you, Bashir Hadi? Don’t you see what’s going on here?” Candace said. “I think Ahmet and Yazmina like each other.”

  He looked surprised. “You think that could be true?” He smiled, then caught himself, and said, “Even if so, that is a very personal thing. Very private. Something we don’t discuss.”

  “What do you mean? This is the twenty-first century! Can’t a man and a woman like each other?”

  Bashir Hadi looked at Sunny and sighed. “It is not for me to talk about.”

  “Come on, Candace,” Sunny said. “You’re aware this is another culture. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  “That’s for certain,” said Isabel. “But it’s bloody time this country changes.”

  “Change is right!” said Candace. “Come on, Bashir Hadi. Tell me you don’t want your country to be more modern, more tolerant, more—”

  “Of course I do,” he said, “but from the inside out. I want Afghans to change Afghanistan.”

  “Oh.” Candace laughed. “So you’re a snob! Nobody else’s opinion matters.”

  “Candace, please,” said Sunny.

  “What? Bashir Hadi knows I’m kidding.” She laughed again.

  “I’m just tired of everyone treating us as if we’re like babies in our mothers’ arms. We can figure this out ourselves,” he said.

  “That makes sense,” said Isabel.

  “Not so far,” Candace said, shaking her head.

  “Candace, please,” Sunny said, putting a hand on her arm.

  Bashir Hadi then put the tray down on the table. “It’s okay. Let me explain. I think you forget who I am,” he said calmly to Candace. “I am not American, you who have no obligations to your family or to your own history or destiny. And I am not British,” he said, looking at Isabel, “you who are so hypocritical to hold on to the worst of your past—your classes, your place in society based only on your family’s history—and then, at the same time, say you’re modern?” He looked away.

  Everyone sat in silence, stunned by Bashir Hadi’s seriousness.

  He continued, “At least I know my duty as an Afghan and a Muslim. I honor the ancient traditions and my family’s wishes.”

  “Don’t you see,” argued Candace, “they cannot love. They—”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” demanded Bashir Hadi. “Who do you mean by ‘they’?”

  “You, that’s who! And Wakil, and all the other men who were raised in this culture that debases women and glorifies the worst aspects of men.”

  “Candace,” said Isabel softly, putting her hand on her other arm, as if Candace needed both women to hold her down.

  Sunny realized that something must be wrong. This had gotten way out of line; Candace was taking all this too personally.

  Bashir Hadi lowered his voice and hissed, “Do not put me in the same classification with your Wakil and ‘all the other men.’ I am Hazara. I am hated by all those other men. But you might be right about one thing: The parents have always chosen for the children. Halajan would have to make this happen. Even now.” He stopped and finally smiled. “But I’m certainly not going to push her. How about anybody else?”

  Finally the people at the table relaxed—except Candace, who was clearly upset.

  And then Isabel cut through the awkwardness in that spot-on direct way she had and said to Candace, “What’s going on with you? Are you saying that you and Wakil aren’t together anymore? Is that what this is about?”

  Candace looked straight at Isabel while her eyes filled with tears.

  “I don’t know what happened, what I did wrong.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Sunny soothingly. She couldn’t believe it, but seeing Candace’s tears, she felt, like Isabel, sorry for her.

  “I raised the money he wanted, I got commitments for supplies from an NGO, I even got Dr. Malik to come. She wrote a letter of recommendation to the consulate and …”

  Sunny looked at Isabel and they understood then and there what the relationship had been about.

  “… and still it wasn’t enough.” She shook her head.

  “What happened?” Sunny asked.

  “What happened?” Candace sniffed, wiped her tears. “He dumped me! That’s what happened.”

  Sunny reached over and put her hand on Candace’s.

  “He told me he appreciated everything I had done for him and his orphanage, but that it could never work. He could never marry a woman who wasn’t Muslim. But I know the truth. He never really loved me. He used me.”

  “What’s love got to do with it?” said Isabel. “As the song says. In Afghanistan, love is for everybody else. Here it’s a horse trade. You got what I need? Then I got something for you. Ask me sometime about my general Stewart and his swag. Met him in Africa. But he’s stationed here now, if my sources are correct. He was very upright and tweed, and nothing to talk about in bed, but he could get you anything you might want or need, straightaway.”

  And Sunny thought of Jack, whom she wanted nothing from—except him. She missed him and thought she might even be in love with him, and yet he was thousands of miles away. And she thought of Tommy, whom she used to love and now was here and she didn’t think, she wasn’t sure, she didn’t know. She hadn’t heard from Jack once since he left weeks ago. She could understand. He had his life to work out, without distraction. But it made her feel as if what happened between them—not only their kiss in the closet, but their growing closeness—was a fantasy and had never actually happened at all. Sometimes, she knew from past experience, she had a great ability to believe in her own bullshit.

  By then the coffeehouse had grown quiet. The people, except her people, were gone for the night. Tommy sauntered through the door as if he came every day, knew everyone, and maybe even owned the place. In his jeans, his white rumpled shirt, and his leather jacket, he looked excellent. This was a sexy guy, and as he talked his hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it back with his hand, a hand Sunny could imagine on her. She couldn’t help it. It was always about sexual attraction with him. And, he was here. But she hadn’t mentioned him to her friends, and now, there’d be some explaining to do.

  “Hey, everybody.” He kissed each woman on the cheek as they were introduced, and when he got to Sunny, he said, “Look at you, gorgeous.”

  She smiled and twirled around like a little girl. “Yazmina made it for me.”

  “It suits her, doesn’t it?” said Isabel.

  “She looks like a princess, a very sexy princess,” Tommy said, not taking his eyes off Sunny.

  “So, Sunny, where have you been keeping this one? How do you know this lovely man?” Candace said.

  “She hasn’t told you about me? Keeping me a secret, Sunny? So,” he said quietly as he took her two hands in his, “how about we go away somewhere together?”

  She lost her smile and said, “What are you talking about?” She glanced at Candace and Isabel, who were listening as if they were taking notes.

  “Let’s take a few days. To catch up, to get to know each other again. We can’t do it here.” He looked at the table of her friends. “Too crowded.”

  “I can’t. We’re busy. I’m painting the wall.”

  “Come on, we need some time
together. Mazar-e Sharif. You’re not going to believe how beautiful it is there.”

  “I’ve been.”

  “Not with me,” he said arrogantly, with a sly smile.

  Sunny put her hands on her hips and said, “I can’t just drop everything to go off with you. I don’t even know you anymore.”

  “Sunny, if you don’t go with this beautiful man, then I will,” said Candace.

  Isabel nudged Candace with her elbow and said to Sunny, “Why don’t you take some time and think about it?”

  “Can we talk about this alone?” asked Tommy. “Please.”

  “Outside.”

  She walked out to the front courtyard, with Tommy following, and stood in the moonlight in front of her wall, with its smeared and faded outline of the tiger looking like it was going to devour Tommy. Perfect, Sunny thought.

  He took her hands in his. “Let’s just go. I was thinking we’d go tomorrow.” He was excited, like a boy, and it was infectious.

  Sunny was tempted to say yes but she shook her head. She hadn’t slept with him since his return, insisting it was time she needed—time to get used to him, to them—but knowing that it was her ambivalence that stopped her. “Not tomorrow. I need to, I mean, there’s a lot to … I don’t know.”

  “Okay, then, it’s settled. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Figure we’ll be back in a few days, on Sunday.” He looked through the window at Bashir Hadi. “He’ll be fine without you.”

  Sunny turned to look at Bashir Hadi, who was cleaning up for the night. Of course he’d be fine without her. She’d taken days off before, when she went to Dubai, when she went to Beirut and Morocco. This was different. This had nothing to do with the coffeehouse or Bashir Hadi or anything else. This had to do with her and what she wanted, if only she knew what that was.

  She looked into Tommy’s bright blue eyes, whose crow’s feet and heavy lids betrayed his age and whatever violence he’d experienced this past year. And in a reckless moment, outside, under the moon, she heard herself say, “Yes.”

  Later that evening, after the customers had left, and after she’d answered Candace’s and Isabel’s questions, particularly the ones regarding why the hell she hadn’t told them about Tommy, and how she felt about him versus Jack, which she had a hard time answering because she didn’t know herself, Sunny left Candace and Isabel drinking at the table to go to pack. She passed a small window that looked out onto the back courtyard, and through it she saw Halajan smoking, her scarf down around her neck, her short hair shiny in the moonlight. She decided to join her. Halajan jumped when the door opened, quickly covering her head and hiding her cigarette behind her back, but when she realized it was Sunny, she relaxed and continued smoking.

  “It’s a beautiful night, Halajan, isn’t it?” said Sunny.

  “It’s the start of spring. This is what happens,” Halajan responded, taking a big drag.

  Sunny smiled with a shrug. “True. Still.”

  There was a long moment of silence as the two women stood leaning against the wall. Then Sunny turned to walk back inside, but when she did, Halajan spoke.

  “Please wait. I must talk with you. I am so angry at me!”

  “Hala, what is it?” asked Sunny.

  “I’ve waited too long. And now Jack is gone. I am ashamed.”

  “Then it’s good to talk about it now.”

  “Now it could be too late! Jack may never come back. Don’t you see?” She was agitated.

  “Jack? What’s this about?” Sunny said quietly. “Halajan, whatever it is, whatever help you need, we can deal with it.”

  “Not me. It’s Yazmina who needs help,” she said desperately.

  Sunny turned. “Is it the baby? Is she okay?”

  “It’s her younger sister, Layla.”

  “She has a sister? She’s never even mentioned—”

  “She’s worried for her. She’s so young, only twelve, but she will be taken by the same men who stole Yazmina once it’s spring again in the north and the mountain roads are open. But she won’t be as lucky as Yazmina. I thought that maybe Mr. Jack, maybe he could go get Layla and—”

  “Oh, Halajan, it’s true, I think. Jack would know how to deal with something like this, given his experience with negotiating. But I don’t know when or if he’ll be coming back.”

  “You trust in Jack and yet you’re going to Mazar-e Sharif tomorrow with Tommy,” said Halajan.

  “Yes,” Sunny said, in barely a whisper. I’m ashamed, too, she was thinking. “What about Tommy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To help get Layla out of there. He knows the area. He has friends in the military that can help. Maybe get a helicopter to get him up there fast. Maybe not even have to wait for the roads to open.”

  “I trust Jack more.” She lit another cigarette. “But in his absence Tommy will do.”

  “My thinking exactly.”

  And the two women laughed for a moment, understanding each other’s meaning.

  “If you would ask him, I would be so grateful.”

  “I will, while we’re in Mazar. How could he say no to me there? Have you ever been there, Halajan?”

  “Miss Sunny, we’ve all been there.”

  Sunny pursed her brows and cocked her head. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about, Halajan? That mystical stuff doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Who knows what sounds like me anymore?” Halajan took another drag from her cigarette, and as she blew out the smoke, she explained, “There’s a legend about the white doves of Mazar-e Sharif’s blue mosque. It is said that all doves that go there turn white after forty days and forty nights. Then, every seventh of the white doves is given a spirit, a path to God. So you see what I mean.”

  Sunny thought about it for a minute and then said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite get the connection—”

  “Do Americans have no use for metaphor? Or is it only you who needs such a literal translation?”

  Sunny laughed and said, “I hope it’s just me.”

  “Well, Sunny,” Halajan continued, speaking very slowly for Sunny’s benefit. “Like the doves, for which walls, mountains, and wars are no barrier, people who live in Afghanistan are from other places—whether a thousand years ago or yesterday. But they quickly become a part of this country, and as they do, they change color and will never go back to being their old gray selves. The experience of Motherland Afghanistan makes everyone Afghan.

  “But not everyone is worthy of being rewarded with a spirit. So only every seventh dove or every seventh person is blessed.” She inhaled from her cigarette. “So now you understand?”

  “I don’t know, Halajan. I think so.”

  “So you see, we’re all white doves. But only the special ones are the seventh dove.” She dropped her cigarette on the cement patio and crushed it with her foot, then said, “Too bad you’re going with an eighth.” She covered her head with her scarf, wrapping it around her neck and throwing the rest over her shoulder.

  “But you always liked Tommy.”

  “I did. I hope I do still. But you should not be going with him. You should be going with someone you love. Because everything we do in life matters. One thing leads to another.”

  “Love? Someone just told me that in Afghanistan love is for everybody else.”

  Halajan laughed. “Since when do you listen to such nonsense? Even I know that love is in our Afghan bones, flows through our blood. That’s why I get so angry at those who try to make love a sin. But don’t listen to me, an old lady. Go, have fun, feed the birds.”

  “Thanks, Halajan. I’ll see you on Sunday, and I will do everything I can to get Tommy to help bring Layla here.”

  Sunny rushed back to the café, sat with Isabel and Candace, and said, “Yazmina has a twelve-year-old sister.”

  The two women just looked at her, waiting for more.

  “And we have to get her out. She was left with her uncle and she’ll be taken just the way Yazmina was, o
nly she may not be as lucky,” she said breathlessly.

  The two women looked at each other and then back at Sunny.

  “She has a sister?” asked Isabel.

  “She was taken? By who? Is that how she got here?” Candace asked.

  “Please, we have to try to find her sister,” said Sunny impatiently.

  “Okay, slow down, everyone. Sunny, tell us the whole story,” Isabel said, “from the beginning.”

  Sunny took a deep breath and told them everything—almost everything. She’d promised to keep Yazmina’s pregnancy a secret, and she would. But she told them how she’d met Yazmina at the Women’s Ministry, how her uncle had been forced to give her away to repay a debt, how Yazmina had escaped from the men before they could sell her, and now, of the threat that the men would return for her younger sister, who’d been left behind. That, once the snow melted and the mountain roads were clear, Yazmina feared Layla would be in danger.

  “There must be something we can do to help her,” Isabel said.

  “We have to,” said Candace.

  “And, shit. She’s just a baby. Jack knows the area and the delicate relationships of the people up there. I know he’d be willing to do whatever he could. But he’s not here and God knows when or if he’ll be back.” Sunny paused and sighed. “I can ask Tommy, though. He doesn’t have Jack’s smarts, but he’s got the brute strength to get Layla out. But …” She hesitated.

  “It’s so fucking barbaric,” said Isabel. “I’ve seen it a hundred times and never get used to it. Women being bartered or sold to the highest bloody bidder for their bodies. I was just telling Candace about Pul-e Charkhi, the conditions, the waste of women’s lives. For nothing! For being women, for saying no!”

  “You want to do something?” Candace demanded impatiently. “So stop talking and do something!” She pounded her fist on the table. “And you, Sunny, what’s the problem? Get your men up to the mountains to save the girl. You gave Yazmina her life back, but now her little sister needs you.”

  Sunny and Isabel exchanged looks. Candace was right. And given all she’d done for Wakil’s clinic and school, and her proven fund-raising skills, Sunny suspected she could use something to sink her teeth into now that Wakil had hurt her.