A Cup of Friendship (27 page)

A
ll of a sudden it seemed as if everything in Sunny’s life had changed. She felt like an adolescent kid again, who awakens one day to find herself in a new body with no idea who she is or what she will become. Sunny had inherited a dog, a baby, an old boyfriend back from the dead, a new love with an old friend, and a booming business at the coffeehouse. Her life was in flux; she didn’t know what she wanted and felt that everything was happening
to
her, instead of
because of
her.

The mural remained unfinished, and whenever Sunny looked out her front windows, she felt a guilty tug in her stomach. It simply looked terrible, and empty. Sunny had thought she’d enjoy it. It was something she could do alone, outside in the early spring sunshine, under the budding trees, the paintbrushes and paints hers to choose, her vision of the wall hers alone. To be alone was what she needed when the baby cried, when Halajan made her snarky observations, when Tommy encroached on her physical space. The only time she didn’t want to be alone was when Jack was around, which wasn’t often because of the increased need for his expertise. He was gone again and had been for weeks. Three American aid workers had been kidnapped in Kandahar, and he had been sent to negotiate their release.

His work was something they didn’t discuss in detail. She could accuse him of being secretive, or at minimum, unforthcoming, but it was her fault as well. She didn’t want to know. Though the real truth was that she
did
know.

When she’d asked for his help finding Layla, he’d been very clear about how dangerous a mission it would be, how difficult, virtually impossible.

“The villages in Nuristan are run by drug lords and warlords,” he explained. “There are no laws, Sunny, except those imposed by them. There are no real roads or village markers. There’s almost no cellphone reception and no email connections up there in the mountains. One doesn’t go there. It’s rugged, rough, and restricted territory. Finding one young girl whose uncle owes money to the drug lords or warlords—and then getting her safely to Kabul with no further repercussions—will be as difficult and dangerous as climbing Mount Everest.”

“But what about Yazmina? It’s her sister. What do I tell her? That there’s no way?”

She remembered how he looked then. The pain on his face, as he shook his head. He’d try, he said, to contact people he knew up there, military guys, shooters. If there was a way, he’d find it. But she shouldn’t be too hopeful. Somehow, she understood then, how different a man he was from Tommy, who said he couldn’t do it either, but his were selfish reasons, not the reasons of someone who cared about someone he didn’t even know.

So, how could she not know how dangerous it was? She knew it as if it were she out there herself, in the rugged wasteland of the treacherous south, where the Taliban slept in caves, their vast stores of weapons hidden in underground shelters they’d built into the rocky earth.

The night before he’d left for this latest job, Sunny and Jack had gone to the roof after dinner and looked out over Kabul. The night was black, but the sky was starry, like a protective blanket over them.

“I leave tomorrow. I could be gone longer this time.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

“If it gets bad here, which it’s going to, you’ll have to make a decision.”

“About what? About leaving Kabul?”

“Americans will be targets. It’ll be very dangerous here for you. And it’s not far off. You can feel the dangers growing in Kabul every day. We’ve been lucky so far.”

“What about you?”

“For me, too. And I want to be with you.”

“So you’re saying we just pack up and leave our lives here and go back to the States?”

“An argument can be made for leaving Afghanistan to the Afghans. We treat them like idiots. And you know, and I know, that Halajan, Yazmina, Bashir Hadi, even Ahmet are not idiots. We Americans infantilize everyone not like us. Make them into babies like Najama.”

Sunny loved this thoughtful, intelligent man. But she didn’t believe he could stop doing his work, ever. Not to save his own life, and certainly not for her. Nor would she ask him to.

“But right now, it’s you, me, and the stars.” He pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth, feeling her open for him, feeling her arms around him, feeling her body against his.

They made love that night in her room with all the abandon of young people not yet disappointed or embittered or weakened by life. They made love as if it could be their last time.

And the next morning, Jack said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll figure out what’s next. I’m sick and tired of being away from you.”

Then her cellphone rang, rattling from its perch on the low table.

“Wait,” she said, “let me get rid of this.” She picked up the phone and flipped it open. It was Tommy.

She looked at Jack.
Shit, not now
, she thought.

“So answer it,” Jack said.

“No, they can call back.” But she looked like she was hiding something, she knew.

Jack scrutinized her, squinting. “It’s Tommy, isn’t it?” He waited for a response and when there was none, he said, “It’s not over, is it?”

“It’s over, Jack. How can you ask me that? Now, with everything?”

“Does
he
know it’s over? Maybe you need to let him in on it.”

“I know.” She shook her head. She didn’t know what was holding her back. Breaking Tommy’s heart? He didn’t have such a big heart to break.

“I have to go,” said Jack. “You know”—and he let out a small chuckle—“what’s the thing with him? So he’s young and good-looking.”

“It’s not that,” she said.

“So what is it?” He was angry.

“It’s nothing. Time, I guess. History. Waiting for so long and then here he is.”

He shrugged. “This is bullshit. I gotta go.”

“But now there’s you.” She went to him and kissed him hard. “I love you,” she said.

“Yeah, okay,” he answered.

“Just come back in one piece. Okay? And alive would be good. It’s a small request. I don’t ask for much. Just you.”

“M
ore tea?” Yazmina asked Candace and Isabel, who were chatting and eating candied almonds, figs, and dates. The baby was swaddled to her chest with a long piece of fabric wrapped around her waist and the ends tied behind her neck. The baby cooed and gurgled.

Bashir Hadi, from his perch on the other side of the counter, smiled with every little sound from the baby. His was a father’s heart.

“Let me take a look at her,” Candace said, standing. “May I?”

Yazmina tilted her body forward so that the baby’s face was visible.

“She really is beautiful,” said Candace, as she stroked the baby’s cheek, gently, tentatively, with one finger. “Look, Is, she really is something.”

Isabel took a sip of tea and said, “I’m sure she is, but I’m not a baby kind of girl. Never have been.”

Candace just hummed to the baby, and when she looked up, she blinked back some tears. “I’m a fool.” She laughed. “She’s just so pretty and I have a feeling”—she sighed loudly—“that it’s too late for me.” She shook her head and sat down.

Isabel put her hand on Candace’s and said, “Nothing’s too late for you. I know this to be true. If anybody can make things happen, it’s you, my friend.”

“Yes, me, the oldest mother in the world!”

“You’re not too old.”

“Just too single.”

They were talking so fast in English that Yazmina couldn’t follow. But she saw the sadness in Candace’s eyes and so she figured now was as good a time as any. “Now that you are back, I have something for you. Do you have a moment? Please, come with me,” she said, gesturing to the back door.

“You mean the dress? It’s ready? Please!”

“Yes, it is ready. I so hope that you will like it.”

And the two women walked to the rear of the restaurant, out the back door, and down the hallway to Yazmina’s room.

Isabel took advantage of being alone with Sunny for the first time since her return and said to her in a whisper, “I have to talk to you.”

Sunny sat down at the table. “What is it?”

“Candace. And Wakil. She took me to his compound. It’s very impressive. But I got a feeling that, well, it’s a weird place.”

“Wakil’s a weird guy. He’s got a pole up his—”

“No, there’s something else.”

“Okay, what? You have good instincts about this stuff. Come on, what’re you thinking?”

“It was the boys. All young. All very serious. Praying and studying the Koran all day. Lots of money there.”

“And …?”

“I’m wondering if the orphanage, the school … I wonder if it’s a cover. I mean, what happens to the older boys? I’m thinking”—and she looked over her shoulder to be sure Candace wasn’t approaching—“that it could be a school for—”

“You mean they’re training
terrorists
?” Sunny shook her head, disbelieving.

“It’s all about the money. Listen”—Isabel put her hands on the table and stretched forward toward Sunny—“I don’t want Candace to know anything until I know for certain, but I’m going to follow Wakil and his money and see where it leads. There was this one boy—”

“You should tell her your concerns, Isabel. Better you tell her yourself than she learn you’ve been snooping—”

And then Candace appeared at the table, with Yazmina standing behind her. “Behold the goddess,” Candace said.

Candace was wearing a dress that could’ve been featured in the pages of
Vogue
by a bold new designer who used Eastern and Western elements as well as modern and old. It was body conscious but draped with fabric as if it had been created by an artist. Yazmina had given the fabric texture where there was none, had created soft gathers and constructed a neckline with a large but soft poet collar that was fresh and yet modest. It fit Candace perfectly and she looked beautiful. The golds lit her face; the purples and blues highlighted her eyes. The dress itself seemed to glow from within.

As she modeled the dress, another customer came over to admire it and asked Yazmina if she’d make her one. Before Yazmina could agree, Candace negotiated the price, excluding the cost of the fabric and any other supplies, and took into her account Yazmina’s new baby, her creative brilliance, and the quality of her dresses. Yazmina stood wide-eyed, probably unable to fathom, Isabel figured, the amount of money she’d receive for doing something she loved, that moved her, and that she’d dreamed of.

It was exactly what Candace was good at. Raising money for other people’s dreams.

Later, when the coffeehouse was closed, Sunny said to Candace, “You did a wonderful thing for Yazmina.”

“It’s Yazmina who has the talent. Look at this. She’s a genius.” She stood and walked three steps, turned, and walked back, like a runway model.

In some ways, Sunny thought, Candace is like a young girl, naive and easily hurt. It was going to be terrible for her if what Isabel said was true. She worried for Candace’s safety and knew she had to say something, but she’d have to do it very carefully. “But you have the business talent. Look what you did for Wakil.”

“Sunny,” Isabel said, putting a hand on her arm.

“Yes, but then, he did something for me, too.” Candace smiled and raised her brows, suggestively. Then she looked back and forth at her two friends and asked, “What?”

“So you two are still together?”

She felt defensive, and so was not completely honest with her response. “Not together together, but he did tell me that I am his soul mate. And we each get what we need from the other. Yes, I have been put on the back burner while he attends to more important things, but … What’s this about, you two? He’s got much more important things than me. Men like Wakil—”

“So, what do you think he’s doing at the school? Educating the boys for what? College?”

“Sunny!” Isabel said.

“I think it’s important that she knows you’re concerned.”

Candace shook her head, narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on? Has Isabel been talking to you?” She looked at Isabel. “I guess it’s the cynical journalist in you. Totally suspicious and unable to see the goodness in people. Just because he is Pashtun doesn’t make him a Talib.”

“What if I can prove it?”

“Prove what?” But she knew what Isabel was talking about. She got up and pushed her chair up to the table in anger. She gathered her clothes, her bag, and said, “You know, you’re a bitch. A sad, lonely woman who wants to hurt others the way you’ve been hurt. Not everybody is miserable like you. Not every man is bad like the ones who’ve hurt you. But I guess you feel better if you think you’re not alone. You just want me to be hurt like you were so you have a partner. Funny”—and she laughed through her nose—“I thought we were partners already. But it’s not enough for you to help women—you have to drag them down to your level. So, yeah, go prove it.”

She looked at Sunny then. “You, too. You’re both bitches. And I’m through with you.”

And she walked out wearing Yazmina’s stunning creation, knowing that something about what Isabel suspected rang true and dug into her heart like a knife.