A Cup of Friendship

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “So help Sunny bring Layla here,” Isabel said to Candace. “Help me.”

  “It’s not so hard,” answered Candace. “Just get off that little butt of yours.”

  “I could use your involvement.”

  “Of course you could,” she said, sarcastically. “Everybody could. That’s my reason for living, apparently.” But then Candace leaned forward in her chair, put her elbows on the table, and said, “Okay, tell me the details. We can do this. There ain’t three more formidable women in all of Kabul.” Then she paused and said, “Except for Halajan.”

  And Isabel said, “Okay, but listen.”

  “What’re you thinking?”

  And for the next hour Isabel talked about the possibilities, the complications, how difficult it would be, but with Candace’s social connections, and Isabel’s media and political ones, they might just be able to pull off something brilliant that would save women’s lives. And change their own in the process.

  And then they turned their attention to Layla. Sunny knew Yazmina could never be happy if Layla wasn’t brought safely to her side. The best plan would be for Sunny to persuade Jack and Tommy to work together to get up there and get her out at the first sign of spring. If Jack didn’t return from wherever the hell he was in time, she’d have to resort to Plan B: relying on Tommy alone. But that wouldn’t do it. They knew that without Jack, there had to be a leader to organize the helicopters, the extra men, the arms for protection from the inevitable violence. There was only one person among them strong enough, wily enough, and committed enough once she began something to see it through to every minute detail—and that was Candace.

  She heartily agreed.

  “So, it’s a plan,” Sunny said.

  “Simple, right?” Isabel asked.

  Sunny let out a nervous laugh. Nothing in Afghanistan was simple.

  In her room that night, it was impossible to fall asleep. Sunny didn’t know what the hell she was doing. Mazar-e Sharif with Tommy. A week ago she thought he’d been gone so long that she might never see him again. And tonight, her mind exploded with the realization that, as the cliché goes, life changes in an instant, that right when you think you know what’s next, how your life will be, something can happen to change it dramatically. The very reason to live and keep on living.

  Not that she knew exactly how her life would go, since she’d thought, before Tommy returned, that she was at the beginning of something, maybe, possibly, with Jack. And she knew she couldn’t stay in Kabul forever. So, really, she hadn’t a clue what was going to happen to her.

  She just hadn’t considered Tommy in the picture at all, though to be honest she’d have to admit she’d hoped that one day this very thing would happen. Another cliché: Be careful what you wish for.

  She got up and brought her laptop from the table to the toshak, resting it on her crossed legs.

  There was an email from Jack. Weeks since he’d been gone, and now, tonight, an email. She laughed out loud. Somebody up there was joking around with her.

  She opened it. It read:

  Dear Sunny,

  Sorry I’ve been out of touch but had to figure this all out. The good news: My son is doing great. We’ve spent important time together. The bad news: There really is no bad news except how things change. More good news: I’m on my way back to Kabul.

  See you soon.

  Jack

  What the hell? How cryptic was that? These men, she thought. They can’t communicate, or choose not to. And then they expect you to drop everything for them.

  Well, tomorrow she was going to Mazar-e Sharif and that was that. With Tommy, her eighth dove. Jack. Tommy. Jack. Tommy. Shit.

  Yazmina and Halajan sat in Halajan’s main room on toshaks with Rashif’s letters piled on the floor. Halajan had created her own cataloging system, tying the letters together with ponytail holders that she’d found at Tamila’s Beauty Shop on Shar-e Naw Street. For winter, she used white, for spring, green, for summer, yellow, and for fall, red. Even the illiterate in Afghanistan knew how to read and write numbers, which they’d learned from money, so she’d used numbers to mark the years, from one and on. She had about three hundred letters that had never been read, so Yazmina started at the best place she could think of, the beginning.

  It was shortly after Rashif’s wife died. Times had been different then, and the letters told the story of how life in Kabul had changed since the Soviets left and the Americans invaded and took control, until Karzai was elected in Kabul’s first democratic election (which Rashif cynically joked about, as if, he said, with the Americans still in force, there was any real democracy going on—making Halajan laugh out loud), his involvement with the refugee aid group, for which he helped to make and distribute clothing, until the present, when the Taliban’s encroaching presence could be felt in every aspect of life. The letters weren’t long, but they were full of details of Rashif’s family life, his business as a tailor, the books he read, the movies he saw, the music he listened to and was moved by, and his dreams of a life, every waking day, in the open, with Halajan.

  The letters were vital, funny, and smart, and with each one Halajan felt her heart grow big against her chest, her yearning for Rashif beating like the wings of the birds in the tree outside her room. Here was a man full of interests, full of zest and humor and observations that could make even a serious cow like Ahmet laugh. How Rashif kept writing to her each and every week, with no response, was a thing of wonder. Was his love for her so big that he needed nothing in return? Or, and this was even more surprising, did he know her secret?

  Yazmina read with feeling.

  My dearest Halajan,

  Today I write with anger and sadness. Our Talib compatriots have destroyed the Buddhas of Bamyan. They’ve stood massive and strong, watching over the valley from their sandstone cliff niches since the sixth century, and now, all these hundreds of years later, these Talib animals think they are the judges of great art? They cannot create a thing. They can only destroy.

  I wonder about men who hate so much. I worry for our country, I worry for our people. I worry for us, my Halajan. I worry for us.…

  Halajan was moved by this and other, more personal, sad events (like the stillbirth of a granddaughter) and by happy ones (finally a birth of a healthy grandson). Yazmina looked up from her reading from time to time to see how Halajan was responding to the words in the letters. Halajan wondered if Yazmina noticed how her eyes were unfocused while she listened, looking out into some distant place where she might’ve spent all those years with Rashif, living in happiness together. She wondered if Yazmina could read her mind the way she read the words on the page. Because then she would know how Halajan dreamed of spending many more years with Rashif in the future.

  The Masjid-e Haji Yaqub mosque was unusually crowded today. This always happened after a bombing, as if the men felt guilty about the deaths, as if, had they only prayed more frequently, more fervently, nobody would have been killed. Though the midday prayers were over, the men milled about talking in small groups, trying to delay the inevitable return to work.

  Ahmet was greeted by his friend Khalid.

  “Salaam alaikum,” he said.

  “Wa alaikum as-salaam,” Ahmet answered.

  “Busy here today.”

  “Lots of praying going on,” Ahmet answered.

  Khalid laughed. “You’d think Allah would hear us already and make our world a little easier.”

  Ahmet nodded. “Inshallah, one day he will.”

  Khalid raised his brows doubtfully. “So, Ahmet,” he said, “come to the field with us. A few of us thought we’d catch a game of football, and then watch buzkashi, have a chai. Take the day off.”

  Ahmet hesitated. He was tempted, but work was mandatory. “Not today. There is work to do.”

  “We all have work to do. Come on, taking one afternoon off won’t hurt anyone. Come with us.”

  “Sorry, next time.”

  “You’re too serious, my
friend. We all need time to do nothing, have some fun, stretch our legs.”

  Ahmet wanted to stretch his legs, so to speak, more than anything. He couldn’t remember the last time he did nothing and felt no remorse about it. But he said his good-byes and returned to the coffeehouse and used the afternoon to clean his guardhouse, polish his guns, and oil the gate, which had recently begun to squeak in an intolerably annoying fashion.

  Yazmina and his mother were at his mother’s house. He was pleased that they had bonded and were spending so much time together these days. Every afternoon they talked, sewed, watched the Indian soaps, or did whatever it was that women did when they were alone together.

  But did they, he wondered, ever talk about him? Did his mother tell Yazmina stories about him as a child? Or as a student? Or why he became the chokidor instead of going to school or even to Germany, like his sister had?

  He could feel his stomach clench with the thought that his mother might reveal things about him that no one should know, particularly Yazmina. There was so much about her that was special, from her beauty, her green eyes and slender wrists, to how she covered so thoroughly when she went out, out of respect to tradition, and how she covered indoors but a little less so the longer she was here, as if the shelter of the coffeehouse was cover enough. And her artistry as a seamstress! Who knew that behind that beauty was talent and intelligence?

  There was nothing about Yazmina he didn’t like. He put on his coat, draped the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, and returned to his post at the gate to greet the mail truck that had just pulled up.

  Yazmina was reading about a time when Rashif had been hired to alter the clothes of an American army colonel who’d gotten so fat that his pants had to be let out several centimeters, and the buttons on his jacket had to be moved.

  … and then he said to me, this big fat American, that he had no idea why his pants were so small around his waist. He said he didn’t eat much and he was active and he couldn’t understand what had happened, except that maybe his pants had shrunk.

  Halajan, my dear, you probably felt the walls shake from the laughter that I did everything to hold inside. This is what I wanted to say to him: Stop eating the Afghan bread! Stop eating the kish mish and the sweets. Take a walk now and then. But I held my tongue.…

  But she wasn’t thinking about the words she was reading. She was considering whether to bring up with Halajan her growing fears for Layla. It was almost spring in Kabul, which meant there wasn’t much time before the snows would melt in the northern passages and the men could make their way to her uncle’s and take her sister. With Jack gone, what could be done? She wondered if Tommy would help, but he didn’t seem to be the sort of man who went out of his way for others. She planned to bring up the subject when she was finished with this letter. But just as she read, With love, Your Rashif, there was a knock on the door.

  They could see the outline of Ahmet through the gauzy curtain. Hurriedly they gathered the letters and hid them under a toshak, shouting to him, “Yak dahka, one minute, while we prepare ourselves.” They quickly covered themselves fully, Yazmina putting on the heavy dark chaderi to cover her belly and head, and Halajan putting on a head scarf to hide her short hair and because Ahmet would expect her to respect tradition.

  “Salaam alaikum,” he said, with a little bow, and his right hand over his heart. “A package for you, Yazmina, from Candace’s driver.” He handed her a box, looking directly into her eyes, which were wide and excited, the only thing on her face he could see because of her chaderi.

  Her eyes caught his, and he shyly looked away.

  “What could that be?” asked Halajan.

  The box had been shipped from Dubai, according to the customs stamps and writing on it. Yazmina had never received anything like it before, and she excitedly tore the box open, pulling the strip at its end, having seen Sunny open such boxes many times. She lifted out a package wrapped in brown tissue paper tied with twine. There was a note written in Dari. She opened it and read aloud, “Dear Yazmina, Please use this fabric to make a dress for me like the one you made for Sunny. Your friend, Candace.”

  “Did she tell you this was coming?” asked Halajan.

  “No, not a word.”

  “Typical of her, to order instead of making a request, as if you’re her worker.” Halajan shook her head, looking down, thinking of the way that woman thought she ruled the world and that everyone was there to serve her. That’s when she saw it: one of Rashif’s letters still on the floor, not quite hidden by the toshak. She quickly looked up at Ahmet to see if he had noticed it, but his eyes were on Yazmina. She exhaled in relief.

  Yazmina’s thoughts were on the beautiful fabric she pulled out of the paper. It was gold like the sun with sparkly beads hand sewn with purple thread in an intricate design. This was for the scarf. There were two other pieces, a purple silk and a gold with blues and purples, for the pants and dress. All three fabrics woven by hand, with love and an eye for beauty. Where was it from? she wondered. The vibrant colors, the artistry of their weave and beadwork, told her these were from India, perhaps. This was fabric unlike any she had ever seen, and she rubbed her palm over it and then took it between two fingers, feeling its softness and its texture. Her chest rose with excitement. She would make Candace the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.

  Ahmet watched Yazmina’s eyes as she opened the box and felt the fabric, and all he wanted to do was take off that heavy chaderi and touch her hair, which he imagined to be long and black and silkier than any fabric that could ever be sewn. But it was her hands on the fabric, her slim fingers, that moved him. She had such grace, to accept the work order as if it were a gift, and then to appreciate the materials—he had no doubt that had it been a hammer to build a house, she would’ve reacted the same way. It proved to him, again, that she was a woman of virtue.

  What troubled him was the folded note he saw on the floor with his mother’s name written on it—he was certain that, yes, it was her name, or at least the first three letters that he could make out—and how the women ignored it completely as if it weren’t there or they hadn’t seen it or didn’t want to bring attention to it. Who would write a note to his mother? Why was it there, partially hidden, when both women were in the room? He knew his mother couldn’t read. Was Yazmina reading it to her?

  And then he remembered that day in the market, when he saw the tailor, the small, dark man with the big smile, hand his mother something, she putting it in the folds of her chaderi, a few whispered words before she walked quickly away. He thought of Christmas Eve, and how the tailor had come to deliver a package but handed her something else as well, which she’d put in her apron. Ahmet looked at the folded paper on the floor again and wondered what it could be.

  It was probably a statement of his tailoring services. What else could it be? He could not imagine. Anything else would bring shame to her, to the family, to him.

  He couldn’t stand the thought. He knew he was jumping to conclusions. But he could feel his heart beating and his anger rising, so he said a quick good-bye to the women and walked out, considering what he was going to do, what had to be done. What made him so suspicious was the look on his mother’s face when she saw the tailor in the café the night before Christmas. It was a look he’d never seen her give to his own father, her husband, in all their years together.

  “He saw it, I’m certain he did,” said Halajan.

  “I’m not so sure,” replied Yazmina. “I hope not. But you are the mother, the elder. Certainly he would respect—”

  “I am the elder, yes,” Halajan interrupted. “But it doesn’t matter in this country where men rule. To think that I gave birth to this baby who can now run my life as if I am a stupid donkey! I love my country and hate it at the same time. My rules, my way of life—they are all meaningless when it comes to the tradition of men. My son is Afghanistan. He holds on to the old ways even when the new ones are right in front of his face to pluck and taste and enjoy. He co
uld’ve changed his life, gone to Germany with my daughter, gone to university, become something bigger, but he chose to be a chokidor. And do you know why? To protect me, to take care of me, because he feels a responsibility to his family, an obligation to his heritage. It is my fault that he didn’t have the same opportunities as his sister—because he would never leave me.

  “But”—and she walked to the window, opened the curtain, and looked out beyond the wall to the city beyond—“it’s also about his obligation to himself, and his desire for acceptance that has imprisoned me, always watching to be sure I follow the old rules, at least outside where others will see. It’s a very weak, very hypocritical way to live. He knows what goes on in the coffeehouse, and he earns a good living from it, but he hates it and needs to limit it to the confines of its walls, not allowing it to run wild into the street.”

  Yazmina was silent, trying to understand how a mother could speak this way about her son and how a son could be as rigid as Ahmet with a mother like this.

  “We must be more careful when we read. We must do it by flashlight after Ahmet is asleep. His apartment is right next door.”

  “He would never hurt you.”

  “Shame does something to a man. It makes him forget those he loves. It makes a good man do bad things.”

  Yazmina joined Halajan at the window and thought of Ahmet, his large dark eyes, his broad shoulders, and his warm face that was etched with something else. She’d always thought it was anger, but now she understood. It was the face of a man torn between love and duty, the face of bitter confusion.

  Mazar-e Sharif was a good eight-hour drive from Kabul but only a forty-five-minute ride on the military plane that Tommy had arranged to transport him and Sunny. It was a bright, blue-skied morning, and the plane first flew past the mountains that looked so close that Sunny thought she could grab the snow right off their peaks. It then flew low over the Salang Valley, beautiful with oases of green lining the rivers and surrounding the lakes and framed by the dusty brown plains that marked Afghanistan’s outer regions. Sunny chose the window seat, and the view was literally breathtaking. Tommy leaned in close to her to see out the window, so close she could smell him, reminding her of what felt now like ages ago—lying naked with him, making love to him, laughing with him into the morning hours.