A Cup of Friendship (28 page)

T
he ball thumped against the wall and Poppy caught it in her teeth. Then she loped over to Ahmet, her tail wagging, dropped it at his boots, and he’d pick it up and throw it at the wall again. They’d done it dozens of times when Tommy walked in through the gate. He gave a small wave to Ahmet and entered the coffeehouse.

Sunny was talking to some customers, but that didn’t stop Tommy from walking right up to her and kissing her on the cheek. He said, “So, hey, babe.”

Sunny knew right then it was going to be a day of breakups. It wasn’t only because he called her “babe” (even though it made her cringe and she’d asked him repeatedly not to), but because she knew she had to end it finally, once and for all. She was going to say what needed to be said, what she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say. Besides, Jack was due back any day, she hoped, and it was important that she be able to tell him it was over and done.

“Tommy, I have to talk to you,” she said. “Come with me.”

Out in the courtyard, Ahmet and Poppy were into their game. It was warm and the sky was gray and heavy with clouds. The plants were lush and full.

“Ahmet, would you please take Poppy for a walk?”

He sneered at the dog and said, “You mean, will she walk me? That’s what she does. She’s definitely the master of this house.” He got her leash from the wall hook and said, “Come, Poppy, please take me out.”

She turned to Tommy and said, “We need to talk.”

“Hey, I like what you’re doing with the mural,” he said, turning his back to her to admire her work.

She moved in front of him, her back to the toucan and turtle. “Tommy, look at me,” she pleaded, her voice softening. “I loved you. I waited for you a long time. A very long time. But now … I’m sorry.”

“That’s because I wasn’t here. Now I’m here and”—he put his hands on Sunny’s waist—“you know you’ll end it with him sooner or later. And I’ll be here waiting.”

“No, Tommy.” She pulled away and looked at the mural—of a jungle, for God’s sake, ridiculous!—and then back at him and said, “I love him. I hope it never ends. And that’s what I wanted to say to you. You and I … it’s over, Tom. Maybe if you hadn’t gone, hadn’t been away—but who knows? I think I’ve loved Jack all along.”

“If I’d known that taking that job was going to do this to us—”

“You would’ve taken it anyway.”

He let out a small laugh. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. But I want you to know one thing.” He took her face in his hands. “I’ll always love you.” And he pulled her to him and he kissed her, hard and passionately, the way a last kiss should be.

Jack pulled up at the gate, parked his motorbike, and walked into the courtyard, greeting Ahmet in the usual way, inquiring about his mother and his sister in Germany.

Ahmet was still playing fetch with Poppy. A red ball was in her teeth.

“Hey, Poppy, how are you? Good to see you, girl. Where’s your mom?” He scruffed Poppy’s hair.

“Well, I’m thirsty,” he said to Ahmet. “Want a Coke?”

“No, thank you. I’m working here, teaching this old dog some new tricks.”

Jack laughed, thinking he’d never heard Ahmet make a joke before. He opened the coffeehouse door and felt so glad to be back. Glad to be alive. Just damn glad, for crying out loud. This last mission had been one more kidnapping, one more senseless death. It was a bad one, and he’d decided it was going to be his last.

“How are you, Yazmina? Your baby is well?” he asked in Dari when he saw Yazmina cleaning the counter.

“She is the light of my life,” she said as she opened a Coke and brought it to the table. “And she seems to enjoy the rhythm of this place. She sleeps through the noisy mealtimes when I need to work and then she cries in hunger when it is my rest time. She’s a very generous spirit. I only wish Layla was here to see her.”

“We haven’t been able to locate her yet. I’m sorry, Yazmina.”

“You were looking?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure.”

“We are looking but haven’t found her yet. She could still be at home. We just don’t know.”

She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. “The men who took me promised to come back for her before the snows melted. And
Nowruz
is almost here.” For Persians,
Nowruz
was the first day of spring, the day when Afghans removed their woodstoves until the following autumn. For Yazmina, it was the day the roads would open, whether there was snow or not.

“We are still working on it, I promise,” Jack said, trying to reassure her.

“They may have taken her already,” she continued, turning away. Then she said, “Everything is two things. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Jack? I am happy with my Najama, and I mourn my Layla.”

“I know,” he answered. “Life is like that.” He thought for a moment of the end of his marriage and the beginning of his life with Sunny. But then he looked at Yazmina and realized he had to do something more to help her. He sure didn’t want to take on something as dangerous as this himself.
Shit
, he thought,
there’s got to be someone else. Anyone else
.

“And Layla is only twelve,” Yazmina said.

“I’ll keep trying. But I can’t promise anything,” Jack said. He had a couple of contacts up there, paid shooters, searching for her uncle’s house, somewhere in a mountainous crevice, or watching out for a girl, some brown-haired girl, in the company of men, but it was like asking someone to find a tourist in Times Square. There were hundreds of lone houses in that vicinity and even more Laylas all through Afghanistan. Young girls used as payola. He knew to go in and get Yazmina’s sister would mean to hire at least four, maybe five more guys (expensive, but hey, what’s money for, anyway?), to pay triple to some cowboy with a helicopter to fly them in (that wouldn’t be hard), and then find Layla (which mountain, which hillside with goats, which little house with a fence and green gate, among the hundreds up there?), and then take her with the warlord and his fucking henchmen on their trail all the way back to Kabul, where they’d turn up one night with Uzis and a knife to cut his throat, unless Jack killed them first. The only thing Jack could do to prevent that would be to give the uncle three times the money he owed on his debt. Only then would the bad guys be happy.

“
Tashakur
, thank you,” Yazmina said, lowering her head. “I would be in your debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. May Allah hear your prayers.”

He took a swig of Coke and heard footsteps from the courtyard. He turned and saw Tommy walking in with Sunny, his arm around her waist. They were laughing, looking like damn lovebirds.

“Jack!” Sunny said, with a stunning smile. “You’re—”

But he was already up, heading to the front door. On his way out he turned to Yazmina and said, “I’ll find your Layla. Don’t you worry.”

He heard Sunny’s voice behind him, heard her footsteps, but he refused to look at her. He waved good-bye to Ahmet and Poppy, and made it out to the street and onto his motorbike before she could reach him. It’s a good thing, he was thinking, as he pulled away with a roar of the engine. He was so angry, so outside of his normal parameters of emotion, he didn’t know what he would’ve done or said if she’d caught up with him.

Sunny ran into the road, yelling for Jack as his motorbike sped off. She was breathing heavily when she got back into the coffeehouse, where Yazmina was explaining everything to Tommy.

Tommy looked up at Sunny and said, “It’s very dangerous, what Jack’s going to do. More than any hostage negotiation. Money owed to a drug lord is money owed. And if a girl’s been used as payment, there’s only one way to get her back. And that’s something you don’t want to know about.”

“Tommy,” Sunny said, sitting down next to him. “I’ve never asked you for anything. But you have to do this for me. You have to help him. Don’t let him go up to Nuristan alone. Not like this, not without …” Her eyes filled with tears. If she had to get on her hands and knees she would. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Jack was capable, but that he’d flung himself into a suicide mission because he’d read her smile all wrong.

After Jack didn’t return her dozens of calls, Sunny went to the supply room, took out the bucket of old leftover paint used for inside the coffeehouse, brought it to the front courtyard, looked at her dirty wall, which was a complete mess, after stupid attempt on top of stupid attempt, opened the can, and threw the paint on the mural. Again and again.

When Bashir Hadi saw what she was doing, he ran out. “Stop, please, Miss Sunny! Stop!”

But she ignored him. Only when the can was empty did she stop. The paint was dripping down the wall, and she put her two hands right into it and began to move the paint, like a child at nursery school, to spread the paint everywhere, her tears coming, then, and she turned to him, wiped the hair that had fallen into her face with her upper arm, and said, “Help me.”

He went back into the café, silently. And she watched him, the backs of her hands on her hips. She’d already gotten paint on her jeans, so a little more wasn’t going to hurt.

He returned with two rollers, handed Sunny one, and with the other began to spread the wet paint over the charcoal mistakes. Sunny wasn’t satisfied until every inch was covered.

When it was finished, Bashir Hadi asked her, “Why? It could’ve been a beautiful thing.”

“It was a stupid idea. A jungle in Kabul?”

“Are you joking with me? It’s a jungle out there! A whole lot of monkeys in Kabul!”

Sunny laughed a little through her tears but turned to Bashir Hadi and said, “You tell me, Bashir Hadi, what is all this?” She flailed her arms. “It’s not fair. I’m sick of it. And now Jack’s heart is broken. How is that fair? How is that right? There should be some correlation between being good and having a good life.”

“Life isn’t like that. Is that why you cry, Miss Sunny?”

“Why do I cry? Why, you ask?” she yelled, flinging her arms wide and feeling completely out of control, as all her anger and sadness and frustration spilled out. “Life here is horrible. It’s wonderful. It’s dangerous. It’s home. I hate it. My loved ones are here. My family. And yet, it’s probably time to go. I love Jack. I hate him.”

“But your house has not burned down,” Bashir Hadi replied. He turned around to face the wall and said, with a lowered voice, “I am sorry, Miss Sunny, I apologize, it’s just—”

“What do you mean, ‘burned down’? What is it, Bashir Hadi?” She softened her voice. “Say what’s on your mind.”

“All I mean to say is that your house, it stands. Look at this. Look at what you have.” He gestured to the coffeehouse. “In Afghanistan, you cry when your house burns down with everything and everyone in it.”

“So you think because you have lived through such terrible troubles that you get to determine when I can cry? Your life, Bashir Hadi, hasn’t been so bad either.”

“Do you know one thing about me?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Do you? Tell me.” He crossed his arms, waiting.

“I know your lovely wife, Sharifa, and your two children, who are beautiful and good students and—”

“Do you know my son has trouble learning to read? That he sees a special doctor and much of my salary goes to that? Do you know that my wife’s mother is ill and will probably die before Ramadan?”

Sunny shook her head and said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I guess I thought if anything was wrong, you’d tell me.”

“Am I crying because I have difficult things happening to my family? They are
alive
. And so I am celebrating.” He kicked a stone into the wall. “The only thing that makes the Afghan cry is war and hunger and losing an arm in a blast, and … people who think only about themselves. I am sorry, Miss Sunny, to talk to you this way. But there is a wise old Western saying that sums it all up: Shit happens. Excuse me, you are the boss, after all, but you Americans, I hear you talk in the coffeehouse every day and every night, revealing your personal problems. You expect so much, you feel that you deserve good things to come your way, and yet you understand so little. Afghanistan is hard and not only hard for you foreigners. You can leave and get a job and see a doctor and go to college and buy whatever you want. We are trapped here always. You whine and moan over little things, and we’re the ones who have to clean up after you.”