Saving Kabul Corner

by N. H. Senzai

  “Who’s he?” asked Ariana. “The guy by the watercooler.”

  “Oh, that’s just Gilbert,” said Paige, hurrying on. “Follow me.”

  For the next fifteen minutes Paige took them around the campaign office, then led them to the elevators and the second floor.

  “So, as you know, Mr. Hammersmith’s vision for Fremont is to make it into a tourist destination by building sustainable, modern living and shopping districts.”

  “Yes, we read about that on his website,” said Ariana.

  “Check this out,” said Paige, opening a door on the left. At the center of the expansive, windowless room sat a squat Formica table with a model of the city of Fremont. It was covered in tiny red, yellow, and blue flags.

  “Wow,” said Wali, leaning over to inspect the miniature buildings, roads, and cars.

  “This model shows Mr. Hammersmith’s projects that integrate materials and methods that promote natural resource conservation, improve energy efficiency, contribute to the health of employees and residents, and increase economic vitality,” explained Paige. “The blue flags are completed projects, the yellows are under construction, and reds represent projects slated to begin in the near future.”

  Ariana inched along built-in cabinets and shelves, each labeled with names such as Greenacres Shopping Complex, Persimmon Commons, and Redwood Heights. Each shelf contained rolled sheets of paper the shade of soft turquoise, which Ariana recognized immediately; they were blueprints, similar to the ones she’d seen for the house the Shinwaris were going to buy.

  As she touched the edge of the soft paper, they heard a voice booming outside. It was Ronald, and he sounded angry.

  “Oh,” said Paige, hastily rushing toward the door. “Why don’t you guys check out the model while I take care of this.” As she shut the door, Wali and Ariana hurried over to press their ears against the wood.

  “I don’t have time for this right now,” came Ronald’s retort to Paige’s request that he see them. “That annoying reporter from the Tri City Express was here again, asking nosy questions.”

  “I know, but the kids said that their principal made an appointment to see you weeks ago. Elections are tomorrow, and we can’t just throw them out. They might make a stink, and the whole thing could end up on a blog by tomorrow, right before elections.”

  “You deal with them for now. I’ll see if I can talk to them later,” replied Ronald.

  After some more hushed exchanges with Ronald, Paige was back. “Hey, kids! Well, with all the election craziness going on, Ronald needs another half hour or so. How about I get you settled in the conference room, and he’ll swing by.”

  “Okay,” said Wali, and they followed her across the hall to a wood-paneled room overlooking the parking lot.

  “Have a seat,” said Paige, pointing to the dozens of swivel chairs circling the shiny conference table. “Ronald should be in soon,” she explained, then left, closing the door behind her.

  As Ariana scratched her leg, tugging at the irritating seam digging into her thigh, Wali pulled out the digital voice recorder he’d hidden in his coat pocket.

  “This is it,” he whispered, making sure the recorder was ready, then put it back.

  Ariana nodded, double-checking that the folder of clues was in her backpack, ready to be pulled out. This is it. They were going to recreate an episode of Take That. Based on the format of the program, they would confront Ronald with their accusations and circumstantial evidence while secretly taping the session. Usually the culprit confessed or admitted to some of their misdeeds, and that’s what they hoped Ronald would do today. Ariana sat slumped in the plush chair, doubts crowding against her belly button; although the plan had seemed pretty solid the day before, she sensed that it could very easily turn into a phenomenal disaster and get them into a lot of trouble. But they had to make Ronald confess to something, anything, that linked him to the incidences at Wong Plaza, so that they could tell their parents and the police. So they waited.

  WHILE WALI DOODLED ON his notepad, Ariana drummed her fingers on the table, trying to ignore the fact that when she breathed in, the too-tight waistband of Mariam’s pants dug into her stomach. Gritting her teeth, she glanced at her watch. 4:21. It had been practically an hour since Paige had left them in the conference room, and Mariam and Fadi would be coming to pick them up in less than ten minutes. Tired of sitting, she got up and paced the length of the room. “Do you think they forgot about us?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” said Wali, his eyes stormy. “But we can’t give up yet. We have to talk to Ronald.”

  Ariana heard the desperation in his voice and cracked open the door. The hall was empty, but ­Ariana could hear the gentle hum of the computers in the other room. She nudged the door shut and moved toward the window, where the sun had begun to slip into the horizon. The cold glass felt good against her flushed face as she looked down to the street. Fewer cars filled the parking lot than when they’d arrived, and staffers were heading out—probably to go door-to-door, reminding people to vote—for Ronald ­Hammersmith, of course. As she was about to turn away, she caught a familiar flash of reddish hair exiting the front door. She squinted and saw the unmistakable ponytail. “Wali,” she cried, waving him over.

  Wali leapt from his chair and pressed his nose against the window just in time to see Ronald climb into a small hybrid car and pull away. “He’s leaving!”

  “What are we going to do now?” wailed Ariana.

  “Crud,” said Wali, thumping his fist on the glass. “We totally messed up.”

  A bitter sense of hopelessness settled over Ariana as she realized that they’d failed. How could Paige just leave us here and let Ronald leave? Paige . . . “Hey,” she whispered, glancing at Wali. “What if we confront Paige instead?”

  Wali blinked for a few seconds, weighing her words.

  “She’s part of all this,” Ariana continued, a sense of renewed hope surging through her. “She’s the one who ordered the flyers, so we can accuse her of trying to drive our stores out of business, like we’d planned to do to Ronald.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” said Wali, pushing away from the window. “But we have to hurry, or else she might take off too.”

  They grabbed their things and ran into the deserted hall.

  “This way,” whispered Wali, jogging toward the elevator. As they passed the room with the model of the city, Wali’s steps faltered. “Wait,” he said, and then he stopped altogether. He glanced down the hall, making sure it was clear, then opened the door and pulled Ariana inside.

  “What are you doing?” she complained. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I just realized something,” he said, scurrying over to the model. He pointed to the center, a thoughtful look on his face.

  Ariana stared down at the replica of Fremont, noting the main streets, Lake Elizabeth Park, the mall, and various neighborhoods. Freeway 880 bisected the city, and a stretch of blue on the left represented San Francisco Bay. There were a dozen flags dotting the city, each labeled something different—Greenacres Shopping Complex, Redwood Heights.

  “There,” said Wali, pointing down at Thornton Avenue. Ariana squinted to the east end of Thornton Avenue, where Wong Plaza sat. Behind the replica plaza stood a tiny red flag, labeled Clay Terrace. “Paige said the red flags were projects Ronald was about to begin,” he added. “Isn’t it interesting that there’s a red flag right behind Wong Plaza?”

  What’s behind Wong Plaza? Ariana wracked her mind. Then a sold sign flashed in front of her eyes. The old auto parts warehouse. It had been on the market for years, until last month. She glanced back at the shelves she’d passed earlier. Each shelf had a label that corresponded to a flag on the model. She ran along the length of the room, past Greenacres Shopping Complex, Redwood Heights. . . . Finally she found what she was looking for, a shelf labeled Clay Terrace. A single plan lay t
here, rolled up in a tight scroll. Her heart thumping against her ribs, she grabbed it, brought it over to Wali, and unrolled it on the ground. There, in blue and black, lay the plans for a huge shopping district combined with an apartment living community. And it was built on the land currently occupied by Wong Plaza.

  “It’s all here,” said Wali, his eyes shining. With a conspiratorial wink he folded up the blueprint, then stuck it into her backpack.

  Within a minute they’d made it down to the lobby and exited the building.

  • • •

  “Where were you guys?” cried Mariam as Wali and Ariana tumbled into the backseat of the old station wagon. “You’re late!”

  “Sorry,” said Ariana. “Things didn’t go quite according to plan.”

  “You didn’t get Ronald’s confession?” asked Mariam, gripping the headrest.

  “No.” Wali grinned. “We got something better.”

  “Okay, guys,” said Fadi, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I know this is top secret and all, but I really hope you didn’t do anything illegal.”

  “No, no,” said Ariana. “We didn’t. . . . Not on purpose anyway,” she added, realizing that taking the blueprint probably constituted theft.

  Fadi frowned as he paused at a stop sign. “You guys begged me for help, swearing that this was a life-and-death matter. But I think you’d better have answers for me when we get home.”

  Mariam leaned over and gave her brother a big kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best brother anyone could ask for,” she gushed.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Fadi blushed. He had a soft spot for Mariam, and she could get him to do what she wanted, within reason.

  “We promise,” said Ariana. “We have a lot to tell you.”

  “Fadi,” Mariam ordered her older brother, “make it fast. We need to talk to Dad.”

  This is it, thought Ariana, butterflies doing the rumba in her midsection. We’re kicking into the next phase of the plan.

  • • •

  The first thing Ariana did was call her mother and tell her they were at Mariam’s house. Wali did the same, explaining that his friend’s older brother would drop him off later. Then they went looking for Mariam’s dad, Habib, who was sitting at the dining room table.

  “Salaam, Dad,” said Mariam, her voice bubbling with unrestrained energy.

  The group stood at the doorway, watching Habib grade papers from a botany class he was teaching at California State University, East Bay.

  “Walaikum a’salaam, jaan,” said Habib.

  “We have to talk to you about something really important,” said Mariam.

  Habib frowned, running a hand over his thinning hair. “You guys are okay, right?”

  “Yes, Uncle Habib,” said Ariana. “Well, kind of.”

  “Who is this young man?” asked Habib, his gaze falling on Wali, who stood beside Fadi.

  “Salaam, sir,” said Wali, his head bowed. “My name is Wali. Wali Ghilzai.”

  The name sent a flicker of recognition through Habib’s eyes. “You’re Gulbadin’s son?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wali.

  “I see,” said Habib. He was best friends with Jamil and knew what was happening between the two stores. “I knew Professor Tofan briefly at Kabul University.”

  “Yes,” said Wali, “he taught literature there.”

  Habib waved them over. “Why don’t you guys take a seat and tell me what’s going on.”

  Ariana pulled out the blueprint from her backpack and handed it to Wali, who spread it over the dining room table while she pulled out the folder of clues.

  “Uncle Habib,” she began after taking a deep, calming breath. “You know that things at Kabul Corner have not been going well, and that it all started when Pamir Market opened up.”

  Uncle Habib nodded. “Yes, Ariana jaan, I know the story.”

  “Well, everyone seems to think that the problems—the horse meat flyers, the break-in at our store, and now maybe even the fire at Pamir Market—are part of a feud that began between the Shinwaris and Ghilzais back in Afghanistan.”

  Habib nodded, looking intrigued and a little uncomfortable at her blunt words.

  “But,” said Ariana, “the weird thing is that my dad and Uncle Shams didn’t know anything about the old feud. Hava Bibi had to tell them.”

  “Yes, my father didn’t know about it either,” said Wali. “Tofan Baba told us.”

  “So the old feud was left behind in ­Afghanistan. Our fathers had no interest in continuing it in America,” said Ariana. “So when all the odd stuff began to happen, and it was blamed on the feud, it just didn’t seem to add up.”

  “Yes,” said Wali. “So, with Mariam’s and Laila’s help, we started digging and realized that someone was using the feud to drive both our stores out of business.”

  Uncle Habib’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” he exclaimed. “Who would do such a thing? And how do you know this?”

  “Well, like I said, it all began when Pamir Market opened up at the other end of the plaza,” said Ariana.

  “But,” said Wali, holding up his hands, “my father didn’t choose Wong Plaza because it was near the Shinwaris and he wanted to continue a fifty-year-old feud. It’s just that it was the best site he could find near the Afghan community. I swear, he’d been looking for more than a year, coming up from Los Angeles to scout out locations.”

  “But then our baker, Haroon, left and went to Pamir Market,” explained Ariana. “Father and Uncle Shams thought Wali’s father had stolen him.”

  “But he didn’t,” said Wali. “Haroon came to us. He explained that he was frustrated at Kabul Corner, and my father thought it was too good an opportunity to pass up, opening a bakery.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of unfortunate coincidences, kids,” said Uncle Habib.

  “But then truly awful things started happening,” said Ariana.

  “The flyers,” said Mariam, pulling the bright yellow page from the folder.

  “Uncle Habib,” said Ariana, “look at the Farsi part.”

  “This is a terrible translation,” said Uncle Habib as he finished the last line a few minutes later.

  “That’s exactly what Laila thought,” said Ariana.

  “When these were posted all over Wong Plaza, my father was furious,” said Wali.

  “My dad and Uncle Shams would have felt the same if someone had written something like this about them. Wali’s father came over to our store, and he and my dad kind of had it out, but my father swore he and Uncle Shams had nothing to do with the flyers, and they hadn’t,” Ariana added.

  “Neither did our family,” said Wali. “And the more we analyzed it, we realized that it didn’t even look like it was written by a Farsi-speaking person.”

  Uncle Habib leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Then someone broke into our store and vandalized it,” said Ariana. “But according to the police report, there had been no forcible entry, meaning no one had broken the door to get in. The windows had been broken from the inside out, not outside in too. But when Uncle Shams saw the destruction, he automatically blamed the Ghilzais, since neither he nor my dad remembered leaving a door open.”

  “But my father had nothing to do with it,” said Wali.

  “So you concluded that someone else was behind it all?” said Uncle Habib, his voice uncertain.

  “Yes, Dad,” said Mariam. “That’s exactly what they’re saying.”

  “So who do you think did it?” asked Uncle Habib, his voice skeptical.

  “Ronald Hammersmith,” they all said in unison.

  “Ronald Hammersmith?” said Uncle Habib, an incredulous look on his face. “The politician? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because he wants Wong Plaza,” said Mariam.

  “We went to s
ee Lucinda Wong,” said Wali. “She told us that Ronald has been pushing her to sell Wong Plaza to him.”

  “Yeah,” said Ariana. “I saw them together at the Daily Grind a week before Pamir Market opened. Lucinda said that was the first time Ronald had asked her to sell Wong Plaza to him. Then he showed up at her office a few weeks later, but she still refused.”

  “And Ariana noticed something interesting,” said Wali, giving her an approving nod. “Lucinda has all the master store keys on a corkboard at home. When Ariana examined the keys, she noticed that the Kabul Corner and Pamir Market keys had been switched.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ariana. “As if someone had taken them down and put them back up in a rush, not noticing they were hanging them in the wrong spots.”

  “But, kids,” said Uncle Habib, “there’s a big difference between asking someone to sell a piece of property and performing illegal acts to get someone to sell.”

  Ariana pulled out Ronald’s campaign flyer and handed it to Uncle Habib. “We know. That’s why we needed proof that he was linked to the incidents at Wong Plaza.”

  “Dad,” urged Mariam, “look at this next to the horse meat flyer.”

  Uncle Habib slipped on his glasses and peered down at the sheets as Wali showed him how to look at them through the lamplight and pointed out the recycled paper logo, the quality of the paper, and the ink smudges.

  “We found out from Ronald’s office that his campaign flyers were printed at a green printer—Leaf Designs. The girl who works there told us that the horse meat flyers were ordered by Ronald’s assistant, Paige Jensen.”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Uncle Habib, his disbelief eroding.

  “Since we know that Ronald wanted Wong Plaza, we realized that he had the flyers created to start a feud between the stores. It was the beginning of a plan to pressure Lucinda into selling.”