A Cup of Friendship

by Deborah Rodriguez

  Friends of the coffeehouse were invited by phone and email. Sunny had gone to the market to purchase fabric with the traditional patterns in bright colors of pink and orange, blue and green, woven into bold prints of medallions and geometrics. When she told the shopkeeper what the fabric was for, he was delighted and handed her the business cards of florists, musicians, photographers, and an entire phalanx of specialists in Kabul’s wedding industry. Bridegrooms were expected to pay, and not only for the wedding itself but for the several pre-wedding parties as well as a kind of reverse dowry—a payment to the bride’s family. Middle-class families, who lived on seventy-five hundred dollars a year, often shelled out twenty grand or more for a wedding.

  She’d gone to the gold market with Ahmet, where they both bought Yazmina gold jewelry as part of her dowry. Sunny was surprised to find herself taking on the role that would normally belong to the bride’s mother, as if she were Yazmina’s. She didn’t mind it. In fact, it suited her.

  Now Sunny stood on a ladder and nailed the edges of the fabric to the walls so it draped over them, much like her tents outside on the patio. The entire place looked like the interior of a grand palace. She hung lanterns and made sure that every detail was in place: the speakers and microphone were working, the toilets and sinks were clear, the floors were spotless, the dishes and glasses were sparkling.

  Then her cellphone rang, buzzing against her chest where it hung, as usual, on a silk cord around her neck.

  “Sunny, is that you?” It was a terrible connection.

  “Tommy! Where are you? How’s Jack? Is he—”

  And then she was cut off and the connection was gone. She tried calling him once, twice, ten times, but couldn’t get through.

  She clasped her phone tightly and prayed they were coming home. She prayed they finally had found Layla and that she was fine, and they were fine, and they were all coming home.

  And maybe they hadn’t and they weren’t. But it had been three weeks, so why not now? The wedding was tomorrow. She let herself think foolishly then, to believe like a little girl, that because the day was special, other good things could happen. That the world was like that—things happen in multiples. Isabel is killed. And conversely, Ahmet and Yazmina get married, and Jack comes home with Layla.

  You’re a fool, she said to herself. Yeah, and so what of it? As Halajan said to her, since we’re all fools, why not dance? She could believe if she wanted to. And she wanted to.

  Halajan put twelve small candles on every little table and lined the counter and the window ledges with them as well. Candles would be everywhere, letting off the flickering light of new life. Her son was to be married tomorrow. The loyal son who stayed by her side all his young life instead of making a new life somewhere else. The traditional son, who surprised her with his open heart.

  People, even those closest to you, are surprising. The strength of Yazmina, the gentle spirit of Ahmet, the persistence of Rashif, the vulnerability of Sunny. Nobody is everything that they seem. Least of all her.

  She was gaining a daughter and a granddaughter tomorrow. She couldn’t be happier. But she’d also learned a lesson. She, who loved her son, had taken him for granted. So as pleased and proud as she was by his forgiving nature and his ability to change, she was going to cry tomorrow like a river rushing from the Hindu Kush in springtime. Not out of sadness but out of appreciation for her wealth of love. She was going to cry and surprise everybody. She reminded herself to bring plenty of tissues to the ceremony to wipe away her tears.

  And the other good part of all this? Rashif and she would have a future together. It was only a matter of time until she’d be decorating her own wedding with the light of many candles.

  She pulled Rashif’s most recent letter from her apron pocket and opened it. But she didn’t have to. She’d memorized it from Yazmina’s voice.

  Dearest Beloved, my Halajan,

  Your son, Ahmet, is to be married and I am honored that I’ll be at his side to give him away as if he were my own son. I am so pleased he has forgiven me for telling you that one part of our conversation, for I was worried I might have lost him for good. Custom has it that I am to bestow upon him my hopes for his life with his new family. But, as usual, I find myself thinking of you.

  This is what I wish for you, dear Halajan. I wish for you to continue to live as you have all these years, fearlessly, with passion, with big dreams, with caring and kindness, with your strong opinions, and with your arms outstretched. There’s just one other thing I wish for you, and that is to live a life of love with me.

  This is my very last letter to you.

  Yours,

  Rashif

  She folded it carefully, put it back in her pocket, and let out a deep sigh. Funny, after all the years of letters, the one thing she’d always wished for, she’d gotten. The writer himself.

  Bashir Hadi had already polished the coffeemaker, marinated the meat for the kabobs, and now had time to decorate the car. Everything else was under control.

  The boy who delivered the bread every day was delivering it tomorrow as well. Bashir Hadi and Sunny would go early to get the sweets from the bakery. Candied almonds and figs, pistachio cookies, baklava, and honey cakes, raisins, and dates were being prepared. On the way, they’d stop on Chicken Street and pick up an entire carton of boxes of chocolates from Belgium.

  As for music, he’d arranged for his wife’s brother and cousin to play the harmonium and tabla, the goat-skinned drums. The classical musical duo were famous in Kabul and known to make parties last into the early morning because of their brilliant beat-dancing music, for which Afghanistan was known.

  And he’d hired the best restaurant in Kabul, as Halajan had instructed, to make the food. But who knew better how to make good kabobs? He couldn’t trust anyone else to pick out the perfect young sheep, cut the meat correctly, and prepare the marinade. He’d just finished, and the meat was soaking in the marinade in the refrigerator overnight so that it would be tender and delicious tomorrow.

  He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and leaned, exhausted, against the counter. His wedding hadn’t been like this one at all. It had been almost twenty years ago, when he was only seventeen, his wife a mere fifteen. He’d never met her or even seen her before the wedding. She’d been chosen by his parents, and that was that. He smiled to himself with the memory of that first meeting, as he walked to the stage to assume his seat next to hers. She was completely covered in a large scarf, but when the traditional cloth was put over them so that he might see her with the use of a mirror, she pulled off the scarf and he gasped loudly. Everyone broke into applause upon hearing him. For they already knew what he learned right then: His bride was a beauty, and not merely for the distance between her eyes or because they were as black as night but because those eyes held the warmth and sparkle of Kabul’s stars. They were kind, and they looked at him with love.

  His was a successful marriage; others weren’t always. But he knew why his had been so happy. Had he been allowed to see, to get to know, to touch his wife before the wedding, she was the woman he’d have chosen himself.

  The last time Ahmet was at Rashif’s tailor shop he’d been pointing a knife at the old man. Now he was standing in front of a mirror, trying on a brand-new suit that Rashif had made for him. He smiled at the irony of the situation, and Rashif, who stood behind him, smiled back, probably thinking the very same thing. Ahmet’s pants were perfectly tailored, as were the matching vest and jacket. The white shirt was crisp but needed a slight adjustment in its sleeve length. Rashif helped him out of the jacket and vest, hanging them carefully, while Ahmet took off the shirt and handed it to Rashif. He sat at his sewing table, put on his reading glasses, and hunched over the machine.

  Ahmet stood shirtless in front of the mirror, looking at himself. His shoulders were broad, his chest was taut, his arms muscled, his stomach firm. His was a body formed from years and years of holding that rifle, carting boxes for Sunny or his mother, mo
ving equipment in the coffeehouse. But he liked what he saw. He imagined the wedding night, with Yazmina, lying alone on the new toshaks his mother had made them for the occasion. Yazmina’s hands, right here, on his heart, which he covered now with his own. His hand on her hair, down her back, touching for the first time, her beautiful skin, all the while his eyes on those dazzling green eyes of hers …

  “Dreaming of your wedding night?”

  Ahmet jumped slightly, embarrassed. He looked at Rashif, who smiled.

  Ahmet blushed and dropped his hand. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “We all do,” Rashif said. “Dream on, Ahmet. I’ll have this ready for you soon.”

  Did Rashif mean he dreams of Ahmet’s mother? What a thought! But love, Ahmet now knew, was a powerful thing. And even his mother and Rashif deserved theirs for each other.

  Rashif watched Ahmet with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’d never seen the boy so nervous. Ahmet, always the serious chokidor, with his strict and narrow interpretations of the Koran that made him seem so young.

  Look what love does, Rashif thought, as he pulled Ahmet’s sleeve down to be sure it fit properly at his wrist. It turned a serious boy into a generous man. This was the real Islam, the Islam of love, not hate. Muhammad would be proud, he thought.

  Of course, he didn’t have to look farther than his own face to see the effects of love. He himself had never looked so good. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was short, even compared to Ahmet, his hair was now gray, what was left of it, and his shoulders a little stooped. Yet he couldn’t wipe his own grin off his face without Muhammad’s help, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask him to do it. He’d loved Halajan for so long—forty years? more?—that to have lived long enough to be able to spend his life with her, instead of just thinking about her, made him feel young and spry and, he thought, looking at his stubborn smile, just a little silly.

  At the wedding tomorrow night, which was to be mixed, men and women together but on opposite sides of the room, in honor of the modern ways that Halajan was so passionate about, he would be able to be in the same room with her for hours, to enjoy the party with her and watch her dance.

  Candace vowed to herself to put Wakil behind bars forever. In the weeks since Isabel’s death, Sunny had found Isabel’s general, and Wakil had been arrested because of information Candace had provided to the authorities. But she knew all he had to do was pay some bribes and he’d be out. Then he’d find another lonely woman to take advantage of. And if he ever found out that it was Candace who betrayed him, he’d have her killed. So it was time to let go of Wakil in every way. She had to put her energies into something positive, instead of obsessing about his punishment. Let the military do that. She had so much to do in Kabul, and all the time in the world to do it.

  She looked out the window of the small boardinghouse where she was renting a room. It had a lovely view of a dirt-filled, scrappy yard and a wall. What a comedown from the days at the Serena Hotel, or at Wakil’s mansion, which made her shudder to think about, or in Boston on Beacon Hill. And yet, she felt more at peace and more focused, and simply more comfortable in her own skin than she’d ever felt before. She just didn’t want to spend the money she raised on a fancy place when she was going to need it for bribes, safe houses, food, and support for the women she was able to get out of prison.

  But she had a wedding to go to tomorrow. She leaned her crutches against the wall, pulled off her T-shirt, and stepped carefully out of her baggy pants—the only kind that fit over her cast. She took the dress that was hanging on her door and felt the luxurious material, ran her hand across the stones, and put the fabric up to her cheek to feel its silkiness. Then she put it on and looked at herself in the mirror.

  Her blond hair was perfect with the color, and her skin looked rich and smooth against it. The details of the dress were extraordinary—tucks and pleats, the collar and cuffs, the exquisite fit. Perfect in every way. So she couldn’t wear her high heels. The thigh-high cast added drama of its own.

  It wasn’t her wedding, but the intense feeling she had that life for her was beginning anew could’ve convinced her that it was. But this time there was no man to lean on, to support, to help, and to forgive. This time, there was only herself.

  Yazmina stood in her room in her wedding dress facing her mirror. She’d made it herself. She’d made Sunny’s dress as well, and baby Najama’s. She’d gone with Sunny to select the fabrics. But she alone had chosen them. She would wear the traditional green of Afghan brides. Sunny’s dress was orange, and Najama—who was asleep on her toshak—was going to wear a dress of deep blue, the color of lapis.

  Yazmina’s dress glittered in the sunlight that streamed in through the window, and it flowed to the floor like the river near her home in the north. Thoughts of home, of her uncle and Layla, drifted through her mind the way memories do on such important occasions. If only Layla could be here for this day! If only Yazmina could know that Layla was alive and well. But if Sunny had heard from Jack, she hadn’t told Yazmina. Not one word since they left weeks before.

  But her Ahmet was here. And not only in her heart, but present and helpful and concerned unlike any man she’d known, except perhaps for the way Jack was with Sunny. Yazmina prayed to Allah that Jack would return for her, for no one deserved more happiness than Sunny, for it was she who’d saved Yazmina, who’d given her a home, a new family, and life itself.

  And now she was to be married. The dress fit perfectly, but was her heart as well suited for what was about to take place? She knew the answer. Ahmet was not just handsome and gentle. He had changed for her. He allowed himself to open the walls that bound him. He wanted to marry her and to be Najama’s father. He was well aware that he would never replace Najam in her heart but that he would open another room of her heart to love.

  The night before the wedding, Sunny and Halajan threw a Takht e khina, a traditional Henna Party. It was like an American shower, except that in Afghanistan, the female friends and family of the bride gathered not only to eat and drink but to have a henna master apply the exquisitely patterned dye on the bride’s hands and arms and on her palms and the bottoms of her feet.

  Sunny hired a henna expert from the same salon where she, Yazmina, and Halajan were going tomorrow to have Yazmina’s hair and makeup done. Everyone—Candace, Halajan, Sunny, and Yazmina—came to Halajan’s wearing their most dressy, sparkling outfits. Candace wore her cast as if it were the latest accessory, Sunny, a traditional Afghan party dress in a vivid green that made her hair and complexion radiant, Yazmina, an outfit she made herself with pants and a long fitted top that was at once traditional yet chic, and Halajan, a rhinestone-studded dress that definitely made the statement Mother of the Groom.

  The henna was brought in on a tray by Ahmet, and then put in a basket decorated with flowers and candles. Ahmet then took a little of the henna and tried to put it in Yazmina’s hand, but Yazmina kept her hand closed, as was the tradition. Only when Ahmet opened her hand by force could the party begin. With much cheering, the bride and groom went at it, Yazmina proving to be a strong and worthy opponent.

  The women’s laughter was so infectious that Yazmina laughed, too, and she released her clenched fist. Ahmet put henna onto her palm. Then, because the party was for women only, he left. The rest of the henna was then distributed among the other unmarried women.

  As the henna woman worked on an intricate pattern on Yazmina’s arm, Halajan once again surprised everyone and brought out the tabla, two drums covered with beads and shells on their sides, the tops made of goatskin. She began to play and sing. At first the younger women just stared at her and then applauded Halajan’s musical ability. But, as the beat got a little faster, they got up and danced. The beat got even faster, Halajan’s hands working as if she did this every day with the strength of a twenty-year-old. And the women spun and dipped, raised their hands over their heads, and twirled like whirling dervishes. They took hands and danced in a circle, and then
alone, and then together again.

  They rested for a drink—the wine Candace brought for the foreigners and Coke for the Afghans—or a piece of cake. They toasted Isabel more times than they could count. They made Yazmina laugh with embarrassment when they teased her about the wedding night, and she reminded them that she’d been married before and had a daughter, so she knew very well what would happen. But then Halajan would begin again and they were up and dancing. The night flew by, with the friends laughing, dancing, and singing until the sun lightened the sky in the east.

  Inside the Humaira Aria Salon, the walls were painted a gaudy pink and covered with posters of Bollywood stars wearing the most opulent dresses and overdone makeup. Children were running around, music was playing, and it was noisy and lively. Yazmina seemed very excited. She looked through all the photos and magazines, carefully reviewing the hairstyles and makeup until she was so confused that she allowed the girls to decide for her.

  While Yazmina’s and Halajan’s hair was being washed, one of the salon women sat next to Sunny, who was waiting patiently, reading a magazine.

  “Come, now, it’s your turn,” she said. “What would you like to do with your hair? And you could use a bit of eyebrow threading,” she said, running a finger along Sunny’s brow.

  “Oh, no, no,” answered Sunny. “Not for me, thank you. Yazmina is getting married tonight. I’m just her friend.”

  “And so why not? You are going to the wedding, are you not? Come on, let’s beautify you as well. Besima, come! What shall we do with this one?”

  The two women were speaking Dari so quickly that Sunny had trouble understanding it all, but they were saying something about her brows and her wavy hair, and then about purple eye powder, and she thought she even heard them mention rhinestones or glitter on her forehead.