Saving Kabul Corner

by N. H. Senzai

  “I know,” Mariam said with a sigh. “They dinged him just because his soufflé didn’t rise properly. I was so bummed to see him go—and that mean chef from New York, Hilary, is still there, hiding ingredients from people so that they’ll lose,” continued Mariam. “Hey, that reminds me, my parents are letting me watch another really cool reality show.”

  “Which one?” asked Ariana. She knew Mariam’s parents didn’t approve of her lingering fascination with television and carefully monitored what she watched.

  “It’s called Take That,” said Mariam.

  “Take what?” asked Ariana, a little confused.

  “No, Ari. Take That,” repeated Mariam. “It’s a show where victims who’ve been bamboozled confront the people who’ve scammed them.”

  “That doesn’t sound that interesting,” said Ariana.

  “No, you totally have to watch it,” said Mariam, her eyes earnest. “In the last episode a guy named José confronted his mechanic, Archie, when he found out that his brand-new engine had been replaced with an old, beat up one. José ended up finding out that the Archie had been cheating people for years. In the end José got his money back and helped shut down Archie’s mechanic shop. The show’s all about getting power back from people who swindle you.”

  “Oh,” said Ariana, still not fully convinced she’d watch, though the premise of the show was intriguing.

  “Where is she?” wondered Mariam five minutes later. It was pretty late, and Ariana’s mother would be calling them to dinner soon.

  Ariana shrugged, not particularly caring. This was like old times; just her and Mariam, arguing over who the best contestant was on America’s Next Big Voice.

  “Laila,” Mariam called out. “Come on. We need to get started.”

  There was no response, and no Laila.

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO HER?” asked Mariam.

  “Who knows,” grumbled Ariana.

  “We need to go look,” said Mariam, getting up from her chair.

  Reluctantly Ariana rose. Laila wasn’t on the first level of the house, so they headed upstairs. It was unusually quiet since the younger boys were next door getting help with long division from Sara Khala. Finally they found Laila in the master bedroom, along with Zainab Khala, Ariana’s mother, and Hava Bibi. Zainab Khala’s face was streaked with tears, and ­Laila’s eyes were suspiciously wet.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Ariana.

  “We just got a call from Afghanistan, jaan,” said Nasreen. “Laila’s father was . . . injured, but alhamdulillah, not seriously.”

  Laila hid her face in a tissue as Mariam went over to sit beside her. Ariana stood rooted to her spot, uncertain what to do.

  “Don’t worry, jaan. Your father will be okay,” said Hava Bibi. “He’s safe at the military hospital and will be up and running in no time.”

  “You grandmother is right,” said Nasreen, adjusting her silk blouse that tucked into a slim skirt. “You girls have a lot of schoolwork to do. We will call the hospital tonight, and Laila, you can talk to your father then.”

  Slowly Laila got up, assisted by Mariam, and all three girls returned to the dining room.

  “What happened?” Ariana blurted out.

  “It was an IED, on the road to Gardez,” said Laila. Her shoulders slumped as she sat down.

  Ariana shuddered. She knew what an IED, an improvised explosive device, was capable of. It was a homemade bomb that not only killed but horribly maimed people.

  “Oh, no,” whispered Mariam, patting Laila on the back.

  Laila sat in her chair, staring straight ahead, as if she couldn’t quite digest the news. “Gardez is an ancient city located between two important roads that cut through a huge valley,” she rambled, clutching her locket. “It has always been an important spot for plundering armies; even Alexander the Great had posts there when he tried to invade in 330 b.c.”

  “Uh, sure,” said Mariam, sharing a confused look with Ariana.

  Ariana shrugged, not quite knowing how to comfort her cousin either.

  “Gardez is very close to Tora Bora,” said Laila, blinking slowly, as if in a daze. “That’s where Osama bin Laden and Mullah Omar, the leader of the Taliban, escaped to when the Americans went looking for them after 9/11.”

  “Oh,” said Ariana. She remembered only fragments from 9/11, since she’d been too young to fully understand the terrible day, six years ago. That’s when Bin Laden had attacked America by sending planes crashing into the Twin Towers in New York City and into the Pentagon in Washington, DC. Bin Laden, once a wealthy businessman, had initially come to Afghanistan to help the people fight the Soviets. He’d been a respected figure, even by the American government, which had supplied him with weapons to fight the Soviets.

  “My father and his unit of American soldiers had gone to Gardez with a group of Polish soldiers,” continued Laila, “to investigate a sighting of Taliban forces.”

  Ariana’s stomach clenched. She remembered hearing bits of this story on the news. The realization that it involved her family made it feel very real. She imagined her father being shot, and her hands went cold.

  “One of the Polish soldiers was killed—the first Polish casualty since Poland joined the war in ­Afghanistan,” said Laila, tears glistening in her green eyes.

  Mariam sucked in her breath, going pale.

  “Mariam, you okay?” said Ariana. One crying person was hard to handle. Two would be way too much.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” said Mariam, squeezing Laila’s hand. “Like Nasreen Khala said, your dad will be back on his feet in no time.”

  “I want to go home,” Laila said in a strangled whisper.

  Ariana leaned forward in surprise. “You want to go back to Afghanistan? But it’s so dangerous—you couldn’t even go to school.”

  “Our house is there,” whispered Laila. “I miss my room; our garden; my best friend, Saima; and the ice cream vendor who always saved me my favorite ­flavor—mango.”

  Ariana was speechless. Laila didn’t want to leave Afghanistan. She’d assumed that her cousin had wanted to move to America, since Uncle Hamza had such a dangerous job that put his life in danger. Translators like him, and their families, were allowed to immigrate to the United States, so that’s how Laila and her mother had come. Uncle Hamza was supposed to follow in December. As Ariana remembered the times she’d wished that her cousins hadn’t come, an uncomfortable sensation of guilt lodged near her heart.

  Laila fumbled to open the gold filigreed pendant that hung from her neck, and held it out. Tucked on one side was a tiny picture of Laila and her father, sitting in the garden of their old house in Kabul. The other side held a picture of a boy, a little younger than Zayd, a mischievous smile on his lips, and deep, sea-green eyes.

  “Who’s that?” asked Mariam, pointing to the boy.

  “Lawang,” whispered Laila. “He was my brother.”

  “Was?” said Ariana, her eyes wide.

  “He died two years ago,” said Laila, blinking back a fresh round of tears.

  “How?” Mariam gasped.

  “He came back from school one day with a fever. But it kept getting worse,” explained Laila. “He lost his appetite and had severe headaches, so my father took him to the hospital. Within a week he was gone.”

  Ariana gripped the side of the table as she remembered a conversation between Hava Bibi and her mother last year. They had been speaking mainly in Pukhto, and Ariana had strained to hear the hushed, worried conversation. All she’d picked up was that someone’s son had died in Kabul. At the time she’d felt sympathy for the boy’s death, but since she didn’t know who it was, she had soon forgotten about it.

  “What was wrong with him?” asked Mariam.

  “They never found out,” said Laila, her face stiff.

  “Why not?” whispered Ariana, her throat tight, no
t understanding how one minute you could have a fever and then the next minute be dead.

  Laila looked at Ariana with eyes that seemed far older than her thirteen years. “That’s how it is in Afghanistan, Ariana jaan. The hospitals are not equipped to deal with serious illness. People die all the time, especially kids.”

  As Ariana stared at Lawang’s portrait, she remembered Laila hugging and kissing Omar and Hasan. They probably reminded her of Lawang. It dawned on Ariana that she’d been so lost in the resentment of having a perfect cousin invade her life that she knew practically nothing about Laila.

  Suddenly Laila reached over and grabbed Ariana’s arm, staring at her intently. “I’m so sorry, Ariana, but I was so jealous of you,” she whispered.

  “What?” mumbled Ariana, further taken aback.

  Laila twisted her kameez in her hands and shifted her gaze. “When I arrived, all I could think of was how lucky you were,” she whispered. “You had a wonderful home, a loving family, and a best friend who would do anything for you.”

  Ariana sat, speechless, as shame settled over her like a thick layer of jam—sticky and uncomfortable. ­Ariana had been so busy envying the attention Laila was getting that she hadn’t once thought about how Laila felt.

  “And you’re so confident and smart,” added Laila.

  Ariana reached out and took Laila’s hand. “No, please—you don’t understand. Please don’t feel bad. Actually, I was jealous of you, too.”

  “What?” said Laila, her head bobbing up.

  “You’re the smart one,” said Ariana. “You fit into the family better than I ever have. You speak Pukhto and Farsi beautifully and are so helpful around the house and the store. Everyone loves you.”

  The two girls sat looking at each other with growing embarrassment.

  Mariam laughed with delight, giving them both a hug. “Look at you two buttheads! You’re both awesome in your own ways.”

  As Ariana looked at Laila and Mariam together, the long festering knot in her chest began to ease.

  “You’ll make friends here,” said Mariam, turning to Laila. “When I came, I met Ariana, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”

  “Uncle Hamza will be here at the end of December,” added Ariana. “You’ll be together again and find a place to call home.”

  Laila sat mute, looking unconvinced.

  “I loved our old house in Kabul too,” said Mariam. “My dad was a professor at the university, but the Taliban came into power, and it became too dangerous for us to stay. As we were leaving, when I was six, I got lost in the rush of people trying to climb onto the truck headed to the Pakistan border.”

  Laila gasped. “What?”

  “Well, it all turned out okay.” Mariam smiled. “I was found.”

  “But how were you left?” pushed Laila, news about her father forgotten.

  “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. My brother, Fadi, was holding my hand, and I let it go to pick up my Gulmina, my Barbie.”

  “So it was his fault,” said Laila.

  “No, it wasn’t his fault,” said Mariam. “He was just a kid like us, but he blamed himself for a long time—”

  Suddenly the front door burst open. It was Uncle Shams, and he was breathing heavily. “Jamil. Brother, come quick!” he shouted.

  The girls quieted as Jamil emerged from the garage. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a catastrophe, a true calamity, I tell you,” Shams said, and wept.

  “What happened? What is such a calamity?” asked Jamil, confronting his brother.

  “That ungrateful wretch, that toad, I can’t believe what he did!”

  “Shams, who are you talking about? What happened?”

  “Haroon, that piece of donkey dung!”

  “What about him?”

  “He quit!”

  “What?” Jamil gasped. “What do you mean, he quit?”

  “And he wasn’t man enough to tell me himself. He sent me a text. Can you believe it? A text!”

  “But what happened? Where did he go?”

  Uncle Shams pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. “The ornery fool said he was overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated. So he’s gone.”

  “He’s quit before,” said Jamil, trying to calm his brother down. “Remember three years ago? He wanted new ovens and a raise. We gave it to him. So ask him what he wants, and he’ll be back.”

  • • •

  Two hours later, as the girls sat in the dining room pretending to do their homework, the truth of what had happened to Haroon became apparent. Uncle Shams called around and figured out what had happened, sharing the news with Jamil, Nasreen, and his wife as they huddled together in the living room. Haroon, it turned out, had been lured away to bake his famous bread for someone else—and that someone was Pamir Market.

  AT FIRST ARIANA DIDN’T notice the vivid fragments of sunburst yellow plastered throughout Wong Plaza. She had eyes only for the sign that had been hanging in Pamir Market’s front window: Bakery Now OPEN. SERVING FRESH, DELICIOUS BREAD. Her ears filled with a dull roar, her vision blurring. The Ghilzais had stolen the Shinwaris’ prized baker right out from under their noses, and now Haroon was in there, baking the same incredible loaves that had attracted Kabul Corner’s customers—customers that had now been reduced to a trickle.

  The evening Haroon had disappeared, Nasreen had suggested that the brothers go after him and offer more money, a car, new ovens, and an assistant—­anything to get him back, but the cantankerous baker had avoided their efforts to contact him. Ariana had sat nearby, wondering if she could have foreseen what had happened and stopped it somehow. She’d seen Haroon at the bakery earlier that day, more frustrated and angry than usual. Maybe she should have told her father. But now was too late. The baker was already gone. Hava Bibi had bustled in then, trying to be the voice of reason, reminding her sons that Haroon had left before and that they shouldn’t blame the Ghilzais without proof. But Jamil, usually the even-tempered one, had become gruff, regretting his friendliness to Gulbadin.

  While sweeping the sidewalk, Mrs. Milan waved as Jamil parked the car in front of Kabul Corner. Ariana and Zayd waved back, watching their neighbors ready their stores for a slow Sunday morning.

  Their father paused at the door, keys in hand. “What is this?” he murmured, ripping a bright yellow flyer off the front door.

  Zayd leaned over his father’s shoulder and read out loud. “Friends and neighbors, BEWARE! It has come to our attention that the new store in Wong Plaza, Pamir ­Market, is involved in nefarious activities. Their so-called 100 percent halal beef is actually horse meat!”

  “What is this nonsense?” said Jamil with a frown.

  “Huh?” squeaked Ariana. “Can horse meat be halal?”

  “Well, actually, it can,” said Zayd, dredging up an old Sunday school lecture. “To be considered halal, meat must come from animals that are herbivores and have hooves. Plus they need to be slaughtered in a humane way while taking God’s name, so that the killing of an innocent animal is accepted. The Jews have a similar process, except it’s called ‘kosher.’”

  “That’s way too much information,” said Ariana with a shudder, not wanting to really think about where her hamburger came from.

  “Get this,” said Zayd, warming up to the topic in the way only a true nerd could. He flipped through the Internet on his phone, and Jamil continued reading the flyer, his frown deepening. “Horse meat is pretty popular in other countries. They make sausage out of it in Austria, called leberkäse; a stew, pastissada, in Italy; and cold cuts in Sweden!”

  “Gross. Stop it already,” yelped Ariana, beginning to feel a little queasy. She pushed past Zayd and leaned over to read the flyer herself.

  The notice continued to tell concerned citizens to avoid shopping at Pamir Market, as they could not be trusted.
The top half of the flyer was in English, and the bottom was in Farsi script, which Ariana couldn’t read that well.

  “Wow. Someone really went to town when putting these all over the place,” called out Mr. Martinez from across the street, waving a flyer as Jamil shrugged in confusion.

  “Dad, who put these up?” asked Zayd as they all walked into the store.

  “I have no idea, bachay,” said Jamil. “I need to call your uncle.”

  Zayd and Ariana exchanged a worried look and got out the brooms to start the usual routine. The store wouldn’t open for another half hour. Ariana had just made sure the scoops were in all the nut bins when she heard furious pounding on the front door. She turned to see her father flip open the lock.

  Gulbadin Ghilzai stood at the door, his face a mottled shade of red beneath a dense brown beard. Wali was behind him, lips compressed in a tight line. Gulbadin waved a crumpled flyer in his pudgy fist. “How dare you print such lies?”

  Jamil raised his hands in confusion. “We had nothing to do with them.”

  “You came to me and pretended to welcome us to the plaza, and now you do this?” barked Gulbadin, his round frame shivering like a bowl of Jell-O.

  “I didn’t pretend, and we did not put those up,” said Jamil in an even tone, though his sense of nang had been insulted.

  “Of course you did! Don’t lie to me,” shrilled Gulbadin. “Who else would benefit from such outrageous slander?”

  “Maybe you did it,” said Jamil, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe you put these up so you could blame us for harassing you. After all, you did steal our baker. It seems you will stoop to anything to succeed.”

  “How dare you suggest I stole Haroon! He came to us. Obviously he wasn’t happy at your second-rate store.”

  Jamil stiffened. “We were here first, before you came along with your underhanded price-cutting.”

  “Underhanded? That’s called smart business. But instead of playing fair, it seems that the only way you can drum up customers is to lie about the competition!”

  “On my honor, I tell you, we did not have anything to do with the flyers,” growled Jamil.