A Cup of Friendship (32 page)

Yazmina stood in her room in her wedding dress facing her mirror. She’d made it herself. She’d made Sunny’s dress as well, and baby Najama’s. She’d gone with Sunny to select the fabrics. But she alone had chosen them. She would wear the traditional green of Afghan brides. Sunny’s dress was orange, and Najama—who was asleep on her
toshak
—was going to wear a dress of deep blue, the color of lapis.

Yazmina’s dress glittered in the sunlight that streamed in through the window, and it flowed to the floor like the river near her home in the north. Thoughts of home, of her uncle and Layla, drifted through her mind the way memories do on such important occasions. If only Layla could be here for this day! If only Yazmina could know that Layla was alive and well. But if Sunny had heard from Jack, she hadn’t told Yazmina. Not one word since they left weeks before.

But her Ahmet was here. And not only in her heart, but present and helpful and concerned unlike any man she’d known, except perhaps for the way Jack was with Sunny. Yazmina prayed to Allah that Jack would return for her, for no one deserved more happiness than Sunny, for it was she who’d saved Yazmina, who’d given her a home, a new family, and life itself.

And now she was to be married. The dress fit perfectly, but was her heart as well suited for what was about to take place? She knew the answer. Ahmet was not just handsome and gentle. He had changed for her. He allowed himself to open the walls that bound him. He wanted to marry her and to be Najama’s father. He was well aware that he would never replace Najam in her heart but that he would open another room of her heart to love.

T
he night before the wedding, Sunny and Halajan threw a
Takht e khina
, a traditional Henna Party. It was like an American shower, except that in Afghanistan, the female friends and family of the bride gathered not only to eat and drink but to have a henna master apply the exquisitely patterned dye on the bride’s hands and arms and on her palms and the bottoms of her feet.

Sunny hired a henna expert from the same salon where she, Yazmina, and Halajan were going tomorrow to have Yazmina’s hair and makeup done. Everyone—Candace, Halajan, Sunny, and Yazmina—came to Halajan’s wearing their most dressy, sparkling outfits. Candace wore her cast as if it were the latest accessory, Sunny, a traditional Afghan party dress in a vivid green that made her hair and complexion radiant, Yazmina, an outfit she made herself with pants and a long fitted top that was at once traditional yet chic, and Halajan, a rhinestone-studded dress that definitely made the statement Mother of the Groom.

The henna was brought in on a tray by Ahmet, and then put in a basket decorated with flowers and candles. Ahmet then took a little of the henna and tried to put it in Yazmina’s hand, but Yazmina kept her hand closed, as was the tradition. Only when Ahmet opened her hand by force could the party begin. With much cheering, the bride and groom went at it, Yazmina proving to be a strong and worthy opponent.

The women’s laughter was so infectious that Yazmina laughed, too, and she released her clenched fist. Ahmet put henna onto her palm. Then, because the party was for women only, he left. The rest of the henna was then distributed among the other unmarried women.

As the henna woman worked on an intricate pattern on Yazmina’s arm, Halajan once again surprised everyone and brought out the tabla, two drums covered with beads and shells on their sides, the tops made of goatskin. She began to play and sing. At first the younger women just stared at her and then applauded Halajan’s musical ability. But, as the beat got a little faster, they got up and danced. The beat got even faster, Halajan’s hands working as if she did this every day with the strength of a twenty-year-old. And the women spun and dipped, raised their hands over their heads, and twirled like whirling dervishes. They took hands and danced in a circle, and then alone, and then together again.

They rested for a drink—the wine Candace brought for the foreigners and Coke for the Afghans—or a piece of cake. They toasted Isabel more times than they could count. They made Yazmina laugh with embarrassment when they teased her about the wedding night, and she reminded them that she’d been married before and had a daughter, so she knew very well what would happen. But then Halajan would begin again and they were up and dancing. The night flew by, with the friends laughing, dancing, and singing until the sun lightened the sky in the east.

Inside the Humaira Aria Salon, the walls were painted a gaudy pink and covered with posters of Bollywood stars wearing the most opulent dresses and overdone makeup. Children were running around, music was playing, and it was noisy and lively. Yazmina seemed very excited. She looked through all the photos and magazines, carefully reviewing the hairstyles and makeup until she was so confused that she allowed the girls to decide for her.

While Yazmina’s and Halajan’s hair was being washed, one of the salon women sat next to Sunny, who was waiting patiently, reading a magazine.

“Come, now, it’s your turn,” she said. “What would you like to do with your hair? And you could use a bit of eyebrow threading,” she said, running a finger along Sunny’s brow.

“Oh, no, no,” answered Sunny. “Not for me, thank you. Yazmina is getting married tonight. I’m just her friend.”

“And so why not? You are going to the wedding, are you not? Come on, let’s beautify you as well. Besima, come! What shall we do with this one?”

The two women were speaking Dari so quickly that Sunny had trouble understanding it all, but they were saying something about her brows and her wavy hair, and then about purple eye powder, and she thought she even heard them mention rhinestones or glitter on her forehead.

“Wait a minute,” said Sunny. “Okay for a little makeup and maybe blow out my hair. But that’s it.”

“Yes, of course, come,” said the first woman, who led her into a back room with sinks, where Yazmina and Halajan were getting up and where Sunny was, apparently, sitting down.

“This is wonderful, Miss Sunny. Thank you so much!” said Yazmina, her hair tied up in a towel on her head. “Thank you again and again!” And she was led out.

Five hours later, Sunny looked at herself in the mirror and damn if her forehead wasn’t lined with a row of rhinestones that spanned from one side to the other. Her hair was even thicker than usual because they’d added a fall that only resembled her real hair’s color and texture. It was in curls down her back with tendrils at the side. Her makeup was piled on bright and thick, her cheeks pink, her eyelids purple, her mouth a deep red, and her fake eyelashes so heavy she had trouble keeping them open. She looked like a drag queen, she thought. And her brows hurt like hell from the threading, where they yanked out a few hairs at a time using a thread and a fast, jerky motion.

“Beautiful!” they all agreed.

“Miss Sunny,” Yazmina said with a little laugh, “you certainly don’t look like yourself.”

“You’ve become a white dove!” Halajan teased.

Sunny looked in the mirror and thought,
I wish Jack was here for this. But then I’d never be able to live this down
.

Prayers are sometimes answered when and how they are least expected.

When the women were ready to leave the salon, dressed in their wedding clothes, Yazmina was covered with a veil so that no one could see her face. Ahmet met them inside and led Yazmina outside, where the wedding car was waiting for them. Sunny laughed so hard, she thought she’d glued her eyelashes together. It was her car, but it had been decorated with plastic flowers and ribbons. It was so gaudy and ridiculous, it was almost beautiful. She knew it was Bashir Hadi’s work, for he’d bought the ribbon when they were shopping together, saying it was for a school project for his kids.

A video photographer was filming the whole scene, including Sunny in her embarrassing makeup. But she figured, what the hell, it wasn’t her day. It was Yazmina’s and she’d be a willing participant.

They got into the car. Sunny sat with Yazmina and Halajan in the back. A driver was at the wheel and Ahmet climbed in front next to him. As the car made its way to the coffeehouse, the driver kept looking at her from his rearview mirror. Sunny couldn’t really see him because of her heavy lids and the angle.

But then he said, “So you’re a female impersonating a female impersonator?”

It was Jack.

“I hate you!” she screamed with a smile so wide she was afraid she’d messed up her makeup.

His response, which he mouthed very clearly into the rearview mirror, was: “I hate you, too.”

But she wouldn’t let herself cry because it would ruin her makeup, and more importantly, this was Yazmina’s day.

“Mr. Jack,” Yazmina said, leaning forward, holding on to the front seat. “Layla, did you find her? Is she here?”

Sunny searched for his eyes in the rearview mirror but couldn’t see them. He only said in Dari, “I’ll explain everything, Yazmina, when we get back.”

Yazmina slumped back in her seat. Sunny took her hand and held it for the entire ride.

When they arrived at the coffeehouse they thought they’d come to a palace. A row of women on the right and a row of men on the left greeted them at the gate, as a friend of Ahmet’s held the Koran over the bride’s and groom’s heads.

But before the wedding party could begin, the religious ceremony was to take place in Halajan’s house. Sunny hung back to say to Jack, “You’re here.”

“I am,” he said.

“You clean up well,” Sunny whispered as they climbed the stairs. Jack looked so handsome in his suit. “No Layla?”

But before he had time to answer, they heard a voice behind them. “Yazmina! Yazmina!” And there was Layla running to her sister from the coffeehouse.

Yazmina ran down the stairs. When she reached Layla, she lifted her veil and folded it back over her head. Then the two young women wrapped their arms around each other and held firmly that way for a long time, both girls crying. Yazmina put both hands on Layla’s face and kissed one cheek and then the other. She had the same sun-kissed complexion, waist-long braid, and magnificent green eyes of her sister. And then she kissed her again and again. Until Layla laughed and said, “Stop, you’ll ruin your makeup.”

“But you’re as tall as a tree!”

“You’ve been gone a long time.” She looked down. “I thought you were dead. I’ve spent all these months sad because of losing you, praying you were well and that I’d find you again.”

“But what about you?”

“Uncle tried his hardest to keep me with him, but the men—”

Yazmina lifted her face by her chin. “Never mind that. You’re here with me now and you will have your life back.”

“I thought my life was over,” Layla cried. “But Mr. Jack … I don’t know what he did, but he got me just in time.”

Sunny squeezed Jack’s hand.

Yazmina let go of Layla for a minute to turn to Jack and say, “This is the best gift I could ever receive on my wedding day. Thank you.” She bowed her head, the tears coming again. “May Allah bless you, Mr. Jack. Thank you for bringing my Layla home to me.”

“Don’t cry!” said Layla. “Your kohl will run down your cheeks.”

Jack nodded to let her know he accepted her blessing. Then he turned to Sunny and was about to say something when she interrupted.

“What about Tommy?” she whispered. “Did he come back with you?” But before he could answer, she added, “Not that I care, it’s just—”

“It’s okay. He explained it all to me. And he’s fine. Good thing he came along, too. He’s fearless, that guy. But he won’t be back. He took another job. I don’t get it. If I had to choose between you and all the money in the—”

“And the adventure—”

“You
are
an adventure,” he whispered.

O
nly the family—which in this case extended to close friends—attended the religious ceremony, the
khutba nikah
, the marriage speech and the signing of the contract. A mullah from Ahmet’s mosque had come to officiate.

Rashif stood by Ahmet’s side, like the father he was to become. Rashif hugged him, gave him the three cheek kisses, and whispered into his ear, “I am as proud of you today as if you were from my own blood.”

Ahmet looked at the older man with gratitude. Rashif was giving him away today, and it was he, in his little tailor shop, who first spoke the words to Ahmet that brought him to this glorious day in the first place.

The wedding contract specified nothing about the number of goats or money or anything material, for Yazmina had no parent or guardian. Sunny acted on her behalf, and agreed that the words Ahmet was going to say to Yazmina were binding enough.

“I will love and honor you as long as you live,” Ahmet said. “And I will love Najama as my own daughter. Both of you for all the days of life. Your concerns are my own under the light and wisdom of Muhammad.”

Yazmina answered, “And I will love you and honor you all the days of my life, in the light and wisdom of Muhammad.” She said it two more times, as was the tradition.

Their palms were then dipped in henna and held together as a reminder of the ancient times when the bride’s and groom’s palms were cut so that they’d be joined in blood.

By seven, the sun had just dipped behind the hills in the west. The sky was washed with lavender and pink, and the light was soft. It was time for the wedding party to begin. The family and friends walked together down the stairs to the coffeehouse, with the new bride and groom following behind.

A car pulled up to the gate, its horn blaring. Everyone who was waiting to greet the bride and groom at the front door rushed to the gate. There, getting out of a big black SUV, was Candace.

“Sunny!” she yelled.

Sunny and Jack pushed their way to the front of the crowd.

“What’s so important?” asked Sunny. “We’ve got a party to go to—and you do, too!”

“Seriously, you’ve got to see this,” Candace pleaded. She opened the door of the SUV and gestured inside.

Sunny and Jack bent forward to get a look inside.

“Excellent gift,” said Jack with a big laugh.

Then Candace told them the story. Earlier that afternoon while Sunny, Yazmina, and Halajan were at the salon, Candace had called her driver and told him she needed a wedding gift. She said she wanted something traditional and was willing to pay good money for it. Could he pick it up for her on his way over to get her for the wedding? She needed the time to get ready.

He knew just what to get, he told her.

Then, around six-thirty, he picked her up at the boardinghouse.

“And there it was,” Candace said.

“And here it is,” said Jack, reaching in and pulling on a rope. Out came a big, hairy sheep, its neck wrapped in a red ribbon.

“You see?” said Candace. “A living, breathing, hairy as an unshorn sheep, sheep! It shed on my dress. I have hair all over me.” She brushed at herself while balancing on her crutches.

“Thank you very much, Miss Candace,” said Yazmina, with a small bow of her head.

“This was our number one wish,” added Ahmet, “to have our very own sheep. What we will do with it, I have no idea!”

The crowd wailed with laughter and applause.

Bashir Hadi came forward. “I’ll tie it up out back,” he said.

Then they all went inside, first the bride and groom, and then Sunny, who walked slowly with Candace.
This woman
, Sunny thought,
she is something
.

The coffeehouse had been transformed. It buzzed with excitement, color, and light: the walls of boldly patterned fabric, hundreds of candles glowing, lanterns ablaze, roses in vases on every table, on the counter, and in hand-blown glass containers that hung by metal chains from the ceiling, their scent rich in the air. Rose petals were strewn on the floor leading from the door, where the bride and groom were ushered in by two people holding the Koran over their heads. They were taken to the two large thronelike chairs at the far end of the room, where they would sit like king and queen during the course of the party.

Bashir Hadi acted as MC and organizer, telling everyone where to go and what to do. As people arrived, he had them line up to greet the bride and groom, women on the right and men on the left. He motioned for the band to start, and traditional Afghan wedding music wafted out onto the street, carried by the rhythmic beat of the tabla.

Ahmet and Yazmina were put under a large, lavishly decorated shawl, where Yazmina would take off the scarf from around her face and Ahmet would look at her fully, and they would see each other for the first time as husband and wife in a mirror that Ahmet held. Layla walked to the throne, carrying the Koran in a basket, and Ahmet took it to read a prayer to his new bride.

Under the shawl, with the diffused light casting a soft glow on her face, Yazmina looked like an angel from God, thought Ahmet. She took off her veil. Her hair was filled with glitter. Ahmet reached out a hand to touch her face but lowered it before he did. She put her hand on his.

He held the mirror, as was the tradition, and saw her face reflected in it. Then he looked straight at her. She was his wife. All his years at study and prayer, all his time spent standing at the gate, protecting his mother and the coffeehouse. Allah had heard his prayers, finally, but only when he opened his mind as wide as his heart did he listen.

“I love you,” he whispered to Yazmina.

“I love you, Ahmet,” she whispered back.

Once out from under the shawl, they walked around the hall as a couple, with a friend of Ahmet’s holding the Koran over their heads, as if they were being blessed by Muhammad himself.

Dancing began, and though it was a mixed wedding, with men and women in one room, men and women did not touch or dance together. It was enough for Ahmet to explain to his friends from the mosque that the mixed wedding was necessary because both he and Yazmina were friends with Sunny, Candace, and Bashir Hadi. And besides, his mother wouldn’t have had it any other way. But he could never begin to explain mixed dancing.

So the men held hands over their heads and the women held hands near their hips and danced without intermingling. But there was no wall separating them, no cloth or sheer curtain.

When the party was over, Candace, Rashif, Halajan, and Bashir Hadi accompanied Yazmina to her new home in Halajan’s house. Bashir Hadi offered to sacrifice the sheep Candace had brought, as was the ancient custom, but everybody protested with a loud, “No, thank you very much!”

At the doorway, Halajan handed Yazmina a hammer and a nail, which Yazmina pounded into the door’s frame. It was said that the bride who did this would stay at her husband’s home forever. Then, the women escorted Yazmina into her new bedroom, kissed her cheeks three times, and held her close and said good night.

Finally, Ahmet and Yazmina were alone together for the very first time.

As they said good night, under the moon on the coffeehouse patio, Halajan said to Rashif, “One thing before you go.”

“What more is there on this glorious night?” Rashif said. “The only night I will be happier is the night you and I are married ourselves.”

But Halajan put her right hand up the sleeve of her left and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Rashif.

He looked into her eyes, disbelieving. Slowly he unfolded the paper, again and then again and once more until it was opened. He looked down at it and then up into Halajan’s face, his eyes filling with tears.

She smiled. “My writing is like a chicken’s scrawl.”

“It is like a work of art,” he said, and he read aloud, pausing here and there when his throat became too full to go on.

My dearest Rashif
,

Today my son, Ahmet, and Yazmina have wed. Soon it will be our turn. We won’t need letters then. Funny, because now, finally, I am reading. We begin our life together laughing, as it should be
.

Yours
,

Halajan

He looked around, saw they were alone, and kissed her then, for the very first time, under the acacia tree.