A Cup of Friendship (9 page)

Y
azmina hadn’t been feeling well all week. She was exhausted. On some mornings she found it difficult just to get out of bed. And then the chores were almost impossible to complete. But she smiled and did everything in her power to pretend she was fine. It worried her, this feeling of lethargy, and she wondered if the baby was well or whether her fall from the car, or the disinfectants she used to mop the floors, or the filthy sewage-strewn streets could have injured the baby deep inside her belly. But she couldn’t risk anyone’s suspicions—because that would be even worse for the life growing inside her.

And it was Wednesday again. If last week there had been twenty people, tonight there would be double or even triple that, if the number of calls Miss Sunny received on the phone she wore around her neck like a talisman was any indication. People asked directions, confirmed the time. Already many had arrived to eat well before tonight’s event began. And there had been much preparation as well—the errands, the baking, the ordering, the cooking, cleaning, and straightening. It seemed as if all week led to this day.

Yazmina was resting now on her
toshak
, her hands on her belly, dreaming that her baby was well, warm, and afloat in her womb. She hoped the baby had found her thumb to suck and that she had every limb in its rightful place. She wondered if the baby was dreaming of her.

At that moment, the nausea she’d been feeling for days swept over her like the winds over the mountains, and she barely made it to the washbowl that sat on the chest. Sweating, she vomited for what seemed like hours. Eventually, she was emptied, and she took the bowl to the toilet in the rear courtyard. On her way back, she encountered Halajan, who was leaning against a wall, smoking. Yazmina had never seen a woman smoking, and on another night, she might have been startled. But considering her own physical condition and how terrible she felt, she had no judgment left for anyone else. The sun’s setting light shone on the trail of smoke as it rose into the air. But everything else was in shadows, which Yazmina was thankful for. She knew her sickened face would betray her.

“Are you all right, lost one?” Halajan asked.

“I am fine, thank you,” answered Yazmina. “I just needed to use the toilet and clean my bowl.” She looked up. “It will be an interesting night, won’t it?”

Halajan kept her eyes on Yazmina. “You are curious about the doctor’s stories?”

Yazmina lowered her eyes. “We all must be concerned for mothers and children.”

“Yes, we must,” Halajan said. “But what matters is how quickly you do what your soul directs.”

Yazmina’s eyes widened. “You quote Rumi. I know this from my mother, who used to sing his poems! She loved Rumi from the time she was a young girl, when her own mother recited his poems. From generation to generation his words were beloved in my family. One day, a trader came through on his way from Kabul and he had a book of Rumi poems, and though my mother couldn’t read, she had to have the book. So my husband bought it for her.” She laughed a little. “My Najam would have bought a blind man a sewing needle if he had wanted it.”

“I suppose it must be, then. Rumi it is.” Halajan took a long puff from her cigarette and let it out with a loud breath. “Now finish your rest because it will be a busy night.”

Yazmina noticed that the moon had risen behind a low cloud. Rumi. Mother. Layla. Perhaps it was the memory of them or her thoughts of Najam. Yazmina was surprised to be feeling better. She had but one prayer that night: that Sunny would come to need her before she learned of her secret.

Sunny was elated. Almost every chair, every table in the coffeehouse was taken, and people were busy eating and talking well before the doctor was to begin. The crowd was mostly women, split almost equally between foreigners and Afghans. She had hired an extra
chokidor
for the night, at Ahmet’s urging, but she needn’t have. Women didn’t stash guns in their purses, especially when they were coming to hear a renowned doctor talking about children’s health issues in today’s Afghanistan.

Isabel had returned to talk further with the doctor. She was sitting with Petr at a table nearby, already sipping the “tea” that she had brought in her large saddlebag, and which Halajan had quickly dispensed into a teapot. There were two empty seats at the table, which Sunny was saving for herself, once the doctor started to talk, and for Jack, if he showed up. She hadn’t heard from him since their last instant message. She didn’t know whether to be worried or pissed—but above all she just wanted to share another successful night with him.

Meanwhile there was serving to do, coffees to be made, and tables to clear. Sunny imagined the wall outside bigger, the evenings profitable, and the money coming in so fast that she had to figure out what to do with it all.
Stop
, she thought.
You’re getting way ahead of yourself
.

And then there was a loud crash that made everyone turn and stop talking. Yazmina had dropped a tray of cups and saucers on the floor, shattering them into tiny fragments. The poor girl looked shocked, but beyond that she looked gray and tired, too. Sunny wanted to kick herself for letting Yazmina work so hard, and was quickly at her side.

“Yazmina,
khair asti
? Are you all right?”

But she didn’t answer. She went to the closet and returned with a twig brush and a dustpan.

“Yazmina, I’ll do that,” said Halajan.

But Yazmina was already on her knees sweeping up the shards.

“What’s up with Yazmina?” whispered Halajan. “She doesn’t look good. Is she sick?”

“She’s okay, I think,” said Sunny. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Maybe she’s just lazy. Maybe not used to this kind of work.”

“Are you kidding? She doesn’t stop, and she’s as strong as two men. We wouldn’t survive without her on a night like this.”

Halajan smiled, put a hand on her hip. “We survived before and we’d survive after.”

“Too much competition for you, Halajan?” Sunny teased.

“Me? You joke. Look how fast she has become important to you. Be careful not to need her too much. She won’t be here always.”

“Well, I’m going to make sure she’s okay,” Sunny said.

She went behind the counter to the kitchen, where Yazmina was throwing the remains of the china into the garbage.

“Sunnyjan.
Emorz
, I no good. I will work to repay the damage.”

Sunny understood that she was saying that she was very sorry and today she wasn’t feeling well. “It’s just
pyala
s, a few cups. We have many more. No problem.”

Sunny saw the stunned look on Yazmina’s face and realized her family probably couldn’t afford even one cup like the many she had just broken. She’d have to try to be more sensitive. Right now, though, her mind was on Yazmina’s health.

“Are you feeling
khub
, all right? Are you
mareez
, sick?” Sunny cocked her head to the side and tried to see into Yazmina’s eyes, but they were downcast. “Would you like to see a
daktar
?”

Yazmina looked up. “No, no,
tashakur
, thank you, I
ba khoda,
” she said. “As God is my witness, I promise to be more careful.”

Sunny knew she was saying she was fine, but she could see that Yazmina was flushed. Beads of perspiration formed on her brow and her eyes were glassy.

“Maybe you should go to your room and rest,” said Sunny. “Perhaps after the
daktar
has finished speaking, she could come and—”

“No, no, please.
Besyar
, many people. How will you—” She looked afraid, as if she was certain she was about to be punished.

Sunny took the pan and broom from her and said, “Okay, no
daktar
. But you go rest so that tomorrow, when it’s very busy, you will be ready to help.” She saw the concern on Yazmina’s face. “Don’t worry. You still have your job and your home here. And you will, no matter what happens. Okay? It’s natural, I think, to feel nauseous when you’re …” Sunny caught herself.

Yazmina widened her eyes and looked at her with fear.

“It’s okay, it’s possibly something you ate. But if you don’t feel better tomorrow, we’ll have to go to the
daktar.
”

“Yes, but I will be okay. I’m just a little tired,” said Yazmina.

Sunny watched her as she untied her apron and hung it on the hook next to the refrigerator. Yazmina started to walk out the back door but stopped and leaned against the wall. Sunny rushed over with a chair.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Please, sit.”

“I’d like to stay and hear the doctor,” Yazmina said.

“Yes, of course,” Sunny answered. She put a hand on Yazmina’s shoulder.

The door of the coffeehouse opened, and in walked a woman who was dressed like a celebrity, with knee-high boots, tight jeans, a huge, bespangled designer bag over her arm, and a tight, cropped white down jacket. Except for the shawl she wore over her head, she could’ve been at a ski resort. With her was an imposing, much younger Afghan man wearing traditional clothes and an elegant turban. He was very handsome, broad and tall, but also serious, with a rigid stance. It was his eyes that drew you to him, dark eyes with a stern gaze that was mesmerizing.

The woman took off her shawl to reveal long, straight, bleached platinum hair. She leaned on one foot and tapped the other, clearly used to entering a restaurant and being seated immediately.

Instead of waiting for Halajan to make her way over from the kitchen, the woman scanned the room and then she sat herself and her companion with Isabel and Petr, in the seats Sunny had been saving for herself and Jack. The two men shook hands and began to talk.

Sunny was tempted to say something snarky about waiting for a table, but she stopped herself. This night was meant to bring in paying customers and a new wall was more important than correcting someone’s sense of entitlement. So she went over to greet them.

“It’s
Candace
, Candace Appleton,” the platinum blonde said, holding out her hand to be shaken, while looking Sunny up and down, and waiting for her response.

“Welcome. I’m Sunny.”

“Sunny?” She smiled. “That’s a cute nickname. What’s it short for?”

Sunny narrowed her eyes. “It’s just Sunny, the name my mother gave me.”

“It sounds, well,
rural.
” She turned an ear toward Sunny. “Like your accent. You must be from the South.”

Sunny looked at Isabel, who raised her brows and smiled, basically daring Sunny to respond. But Sunny just cocked a shoulder and put a hand on a hip, thinking,
and yours makes you sound like a stuck-up bitch
. She knew that her accent made her sound like a hick. But hell if she was going to let this woman get away with being rude. “And what’s Candace long for
—Candy
?”

Isabel barked a loud laugh and said, “There’s my girl.”

Sunny couldn’t help herself. She’d met women like Candace before. They came to Kabul in the guise of wanting to help, bringing their privilege and Western expectations with them, often hooking up with a man just like the one this Candace was with, but when they were unable to deal with the bureaucracy and the corruption, the filth and the violence, they left, feeling that this place, and its people, were of no use.

“To be honest, yes,” answered Candace. “And it’s taken my whole life to shake it. So I thought we had something in common.” She shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.”

Sunny felt bad. Maybe she’d judged too soon, as she so often did. Now she was curious. “Where are you from?” Sunny asked, unable to place Candace’s accent.

“Boston,” she answered. “Beacon Hill.”

“Oh, Beacon Hill,” Isabel said pseudo-seriously, “quite posh.”

“Funny,” Sunny said, “you don’t have much of a Bahstin accent.”

Candace hesitated, looked from Isabel to Sunny, and then said, “I wasn’t
born
there, just
from
there.”

Sunny liked her honesty. “So where
were
you born, since we’re getting personal?”

Candace hesitated again, turned to look at the man she’d arrived with, who was clearly enjoying his conversation, and said, with a deeply Southern accent, “Darn it, you got me. Willow Springs, Mo.”

Sunny had to laugh and told herself to give the girl a break. “Welcome, Missouri. I’m Arkansas.”

“And I’m afraid I’m London,” said Isabel. She put out her hand and introduced herself.

Candace smiled warmly and took Isabel’s hand in hers, and shook it, and then took Sunny’s and shook it the way they did back home: hard.

Sunny was about to ask Candace why she’d come to Kabul and, more specifically, to her coffeehouse, but one look at the handsome, charming man beside her explained it—or at least part of the story. Besides, it was time for the doctor to speak. So she walked to the makeshift podium and introduced her proudly, looking out on all the faces of those who’d come to hear the doctor speak. Then she returned to the table and listened to Dr. Malik report on, with the help of the English translator, what happened to babies born to women whose husbands had died. And what became of babies born to women pregnant out of wedlock, usually from rape, sometimes from a love affair without the sanction of the family. And how female babies weren’t given the same care if ill, since girls were going to be given away eventually to their husband’s family. She mentioned the old Indian saying “Why water your neighbor’s tree?” and everyone laughed.