Saving Kabul Corner (4 page)
Read Saving Kabul Corner Online
Authors: N. H. Senzai
Melanie stood up and took a deep breath. She told the class in a rush of words that she loved to ice skate and hoped to be like Kristi Yamaguchi, an Olympic figure skater from Fremont. Ariana gave Melanie props for being first, and waited for her name to be called, racking her brains for something interesting to say. After Roger Chu, Ms. Van Buren called on Gopal Ganguly, who played the
tabla
, Indian drums. Ariana recognized him from Glenmoor Elementary. After him came Wali Ghilzai, who stood up with lazy confidence. As his chocolate-brown eyes collided with hers, he told the class he'd recently moved to Fremont from Los Angeles and that he liked to skateboard.
How boring is that?
thought Ariana, glancing away. When it was her turn, she stood up and told the class about her love of origami and how she was working on a menagerie of zoo animals. As she sat back down, she sensed a pair of eyes staring at her. It was Wali, looking at her with odd intensity.
What a weirdo,
she thought. She gave him a questioning look and glanced away, her nose in the air.
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Ariana got home from school at 3:14, sweaty, exhausted, and grumpy. She shrugged off her backpack and spotted Zayd in the dining room, doing his homework. Obviously the high school teachers had not been easy on the first day, and he was immersed in a calculus book, a look of intense concentration straining his face. He'd be applying to college next year, along with Fadi, whose sister Noor had set the bar high by getting into UC Berkeley and was applying to medical school. After having visited the sprawling campus earlier in the summer, Zayd was dead set on getting into UC Berkeley's school of engineering, and Ariana knew her parents had high expectations of him. They'd been monitoring his grades all during high school so that he didn't slip up.
In the kitchen, Ariana grabbed a stack of sandwich cookies and a glass of milk, and headed to the garage. The twins would be home any minute, and she wanted to disappear before then. She knew that even after an hour of rigorous soccer practice, they'd come in like a tornado. Her mother swore that if she figured out how to bottle their boisterous energy, the family would be millionaires.
Thankfully, she hadn't gotten any homework and had somehow managed to navigate the confusing halls of Brookhaven without getting lost more than twice. Both times she'd made it to class just as the bell had rung, though she'd been a little out of breath. After homeroom she, Mariam, and Laila had run into one another on the way to math, which they all had together. When Ariana and Mariam had compared their schedules, it had turned out that they had only one other class togetherâart, two days a week.
“This stinks,” Ariana had muttered, gripping her schedule in her fist.
“It's okay,” said Mariam, patting her on the shoulder. “We've got the same lunch period, every day.”
Ariana shrugged and shoved the miserable schedule into her backpack, catching a glimpse of Laila, who was standing next to Mariam, hugging her schedule to her chest, as silent as a ghost once again.
“How are your classes?” Ariana asked grudgingly, remembering her mother's words to be nice.
“Pretty good,” murmured Laila, glancing at Mariam with a smile.
“Yeah,” said Mariam with a grin. “Laila and I actually ended up having language arts, science, and PE together.”
“
What?
” said Ariana. “Let me see.”
Laila reluctantly handed over her schedule, and Ariana pored over the list. Mariam was wrong. They also had math together, with her. So they practically shared
all
the same classes. She felt like she'd been hit in the stomach by a ton of bricks.
“But, hey, guess what I found out,” said Mariam, her hazel eyes crinkled with joy.
“What?” grumbled Ariana.
“I ran into the president of the drama club putting up a sign on the bulletin board,” said Mariam. “They're holding tryouts next week.”
“Really?” said Ariana, perking up a little.
“Yeah, and the play this year is
Peter Pan
.”
“You're definitely going to get a lead part,” said Ariana, momentarily forgetting the awful schedule.
“Yeah, and you're going to design an awesome set,” said Mariam. “You're so artistic. And maybe Laila can help you.”
Ariana nodded without much enthusiasm, feeling as if some unforeseen force were trying to ruin her life. She sat mute for the rest of the day. Conflicting thoughts raged through her head.
Is Laila out to steal my best friend?
It didn't really make sense, Ariana knew, but it sure felt that way.
What if Mariam ends up liking the perfect Laila more than she likes me?
She'd watched the two of them walk away, heads bowed toward each other, long hair flowing behind them, speaking in Pukhto, laughing over a story of what it was like to go to school in Afghanistan, something Ariana had never done. They seemed like a perfect pair, and she was the imperfect odd man out.
Ariana now flipped on the garage lights that her father had installed, to cast a warm glow over the carpeted interior. Tucked away next to a bookshelf sat her treasured plastic storage box. Her father had gotten it for her to hold her origami “stuff”âthe stack of beautiful textured paper of varying materials, thicknesses, and styles; her origami guidebook; two pairs of scissors; tape; glue; a ruler; and calculator. Above the box hung her Peanuts calendar, and she took a red pen and drew a satisfying
X
on today's date. One day closer to moving into their new house.
And my new room
.
She filled her lungs with a deep, calming breath and laid out supplies on her father's desk. Gently she removed a sheet of nubby gray-and-silver
chiyogami
, a type of
washi
paper featuring woodblock-printed designs. Next she cut out a dollar-size portion of paper and set it in front of her. She grabbed her guidebook and opened it to the page on elephants and read through the instructions, munching on a cookie. Slowly the tension eased from her shoulders and she was ready to work.
She adjusted the paper so that the wide side faced her, and she made a horizontal valley fold at the halfway point of the sheet, as well as at the top corners, as if making a paper airplane. Biting the inside of her cheek in concentration, she folded the right edge of the paper back until it was doubled. She was about to make the next fold when she heard footsteps outside the garage door and froze in the middle of making a crease.
“Shams, what did you find out?” came her father's muffled voice through the garage door.
Ariana hesitated, uncertain what to do. Should she go back into the house? But they'd probably hear the door open. She didn't want to be caught eavesÂdropping again. But she wasn't trying to snoopâshe was just sitting there, minding her own business.
Uncle Shams cleared his throat. “A friend told me to go see Ronald Hammersmith. He's a real estate developer and sits on the city's zoning board. He's also running for mayor.”
“Yes, well, what did he say?” pushed Jamil.
“I explained our situation to him,” said Uncle Shams. “He was helpful and very sympathetic; he said it would be tough having a similar business open next to ours. But unfortunately, our lease does not have a non-compete clauseâmeaning Lucinda can rent to a competing store if she wants to. He said if we'd built in a non-compete, she wouldn't have been able to lease to a similar store.”
“That's what I was afraid of,” said Jamil, his voice weary. “When we first took out the lease, we had no idea we needed such a clause.”
“That's not all,” said Uncle Shams. “I was at the mosque for evening prayers earlier today and found out the name of the new store's owners.”
“Who are they?”
“A guy who just moved into town a few months ago,” said Uncle Shams. “Gulbadin Ghilzai.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” pondered Jamil, as Uncle Shams continued talking.
But Ariana was no longer listening to either of them. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered a set of chocolate-brown eyes from homeroom, the ones belonging to Wali Ghilzai.
F
ROM
K
ABUL
C
ORNER
'
S
FRONT
window Ariana had a prime spot for viewing the grand opening festivities over at Pamir Market. Even though their official opening had been the day before, from the looks of things the celebration raged on. Faint hints of music floated in from the troupe of Afghan musicians entertaining the crowd gathered outside Pamir Market. Green and white balloons floated above, their strings intertwined with golden streamers glinting in the sun. Ariana slouched against the glass, watching customers, many she recognized as regulars at their store, weave past the musicians, laden with groceries. She spotted Wali working the crowd, platter in hand, passing out free almond cookies.
At least she no longer had to keep her lips zipped about the new storeâthe Ghilzais had taken out an ad on the Afghan radio station, announcing their grand opening. Sara
Khala
had heard the ad and had bustled over, a whirlwind in tangerine stripes, with Uncle Shams in tow, and they had disappeared into the garage with Ariana's parents. The adults had stayed behind closed doors for a while and had emerged looking tired and more than a little worried. Soon after, gossip had begun bubbling about the new store. People in the Afghan community wondered how the Shinwari brothers were dealing with the competition. Some felt that Kabul Corner had been a monopoly for too long, controlling prices of Afghan groceries.
Ariana leaned back with a sigh. It seemed like Kabul Corner had had only half its usual customers come in that weekend. Her father sat behind the counter, a frown furrowing his brows as he watched the television hanging from the opposite wall. It was locked on an Afghan channel, broadcasting coverage from across the Atlantic. Usually customers would linger, grab a cup of tea, and chat with her father and uncle about recent happenings. But today the store was pretty quiet. The customers who did come were just there for the bread, which always sold out. Besides Ariana and her father, the only others in the store were Laila, who was sweeping out the back, the baker, the butcher, and a handful of loyal customers who'd sworn they'd never step into the new store.
“So, brother Jamil, it looks like quite a circus over there,” said Mrs. Balkh, her white hair pulled back beneath her turquoise scarf.
“Yes.” Jamil smiled graciously. “It's understandable. A new store is exciting.”
Mr. Balkh harrumphed, leaning on his cane. “All those musicians and decorations look suspicious to me. It makes me wonder what they're trying to hide.”
Ariana giggled. Mr. Balkh had been a police chief in Afghanistan, and he viewed everyone with suspicion.
“I agree,” said Soraiya Khanum, coming up the aisle with a basket of groceries. “Tried and true, I sayâKabul Corner is the only store for me.”
“I will only shop in your store,” added Mrs. Balkh. “I was the first person here ten years ago and will be the last!”
As Ariana's father thanked Mrs. Balkh, she asked for a box of tea, which she'd forgotten.
“Laila,” called out Jamil, “please bring up a box of the superfine green tea.”
“
Salaam
,” said Laila, running up and handing Mrs. Balkh the box.
“My, what a lovely young girl,” said the elderly woman, adjusting the spectacles on her thin nose.
“This is my niece Laila,” said Jamil. “She just arrived from Afghanistan a month ago.”
Soraiya Khanum and Mrs. Balkh spoke to Laila in Farsi, marveling at her gracious manners.
“Laila is very talented,” said Jamil. “You should hear her recite poetryâ”
“Recite one for us, my dear,” interrupted Mr. Balkh, his craggy features softening.
Laila cleared her throat, looking a bit uncomfortable. But she launched into a melodious recitation of a fairly long poem in Farsi.
Ariana stood by, not understanding a word of it.
“Oh my, how clever,” gushed Soraiya Khanum. She looked over and spotted Ariana. “Don't you think so, my dear?”
“Oh, Ariana doesn't speak Farsi,” said Jamil.
Ariana's ears burned as Laila looked away.
“Oh,” said Soraiya Khanum, looking disappointed.
“Well, I'm sure there must be an English translation of the Rumi poem,” said Mrs. Balkh. “It's about shadow and light. It's just beautiful.”
Ariana nodded, feeling invisible and inconsequential. She went back to stacking the chips as the trio purchased their groceries and left.
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“The others will be back,” Jamil told Ariana, catching her looking out the window later that day. “Pamir Market is new and exciting, but we have excellent products and unparalleled customer service. Plus, they don't have a bakery, and our bread is the best in townâsoft on the inside, crisp on the outside, and hot right out of the oven.”
Ariana nodded, returning to her chores. She picked up a stack of cardboard boxes and headed to the back, passing the small bakery. Haroon, their baker, was pulling out the last load of bread for the day. Most of the thin loaves, nearly three feet in length, had been sold as soon as they'd come out of the oven that morning. Afghans were very particular about their
doday
, or “bread.” The word “
doday
” itself meant not only “bread” but “food,” since meals were so hard to come by in poverty-stricken, war-torn Afghanistan. Many families subsisted on bread and salt, and were happy enough to have even that.
Inhaling the warm, inviting yeasty smell, Ariana felt proud that they had the best bread in Fremont. The old customers that had shown up that day had grabbed a stack of fresh bread, and then had scurried over to check out the new store. Her father was right; Pamir Market was just new and shiny and would be old news soon enough. And all their customers would be back, since they still came in for their bread anyway. She skirted past the bakery, careful not to disturb Haroon, as he was notoriously temperamental. She still winced from the yelling fit he'd given the kids for getting in his way. Actually, he didn't much like anyone, but he got along with Musa, the butcher, but that was only because they had made a deal to stay out of each other's way. With a sigh Ariana passed Laila and pretended she didn't see her.
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It was noisy as usual at Uncle Shams's house as Ariana laid a steaming platter of rice on the
dastarkhan
, a long table cloth laid out on the ground, where everyone sat to eat their meals. Laila placed a bowl of stew next to the pile of bread in the middle, from Kabul Corner, of course. She stopped to playfully ruffle Hasan's hair as he stole a piece of bread and the family crowded together, grabbing their customary spots. Laila now sat in Ariana's favorite position, next to Hava Bibi, while Ariana had been shunted over to sit with Uncle Shams's younger boys, Marjan and Taroon, who at eight and six thought it was hilarious to stick carrot sticks into their ears. Gritting her teeth, Ariana elbowed her way between them and plopped down. Her uncle, usually full of news from around the neighborhood, was uncharacteristically quiet as he settled down next to his wife with a long, breathy sigh.
“What's wrong?” asked Hava Bibi, passing Uncle Shams the salad bowl.
“Nothing to worry about, Mom,” said Jamil, giving his brother a look that said,
Don't worry her
. “There were some missing deliveries at the store. That's all.”
Ariana leaned closer, trying to hear what the grown-ups were saying, over the boys' snorts about some dumb joke.
“Yeah,” mumbled Uncle Shams. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Is it about this new store?” asked Hava Bibi, her eyes narrowed. “I do know things, even though I don't leave the house much.”
Ariana smiled. Her grandmother
did
seem to know everything. She had her waysâdozens of other grandmothers and aunties who got on the phone and passed along the news, local and international.
“No, no,” said Uncle Shams, vigorously shaking his head, digging into the salad with unusual enthusiasm.
“Now, Shams,” said Hava Bibi. “I've known you all your life, and I know when something is worrying you.”
Uncle Shams stabbed a piece of lettuce, and his resolve to stay quiet dissolved at Hava Bibi's persistence. “Yes, Mother,” he burst out. “It's that darn new store that's bothering me. It's ruining our business!”
“Shams,” exclaimed his wife, Sara
Khala
. “Watch your languageâthe kids!”
Uncle Shams's cheeks reddened, and the boys snickered till Sara
Khala
turned and gave them the
look
. Sara
Khala
, with a love of bright colors and loud prints, was plump like her husband and usually had a sweet disposition. But when she got mad, the kids got in line.
“It's ruining your business?” said Hava Bibi, blinking in surprise. “What do you mean,
ruin
? What are they
doing
?”
“Now, hold on,” said Jamil, shooting his brother an annoyed look. “Don't blow things out of proportion and worry everyone.” Uncle Shams averted his gaze and shoveled cherry tomatoes into his mouth as Jamil continued. “The new store may give us some competition, but they're not really
doing
anything to us.”
Uncle Shams muttered, “As if choosing a location right across from us on Wong Plaza isn't
doing
anything.”
“Look,” Jamil said, sighing, “it's not an ideal situation, but there's enough business for both of us.”
Ariana saw that her grandmother could sense an argument brewing between her sons.
Time to change the subject
. “If you work hard, Allah provides,” she said soothingly as she lifted the large tray of rice.
“Yes,
insha'
Allah, it will be all right,” said Jamil.
But Uncle Shams couldn't help but have the last word. “It'll be all right as long as those Ghilzais don't do anything tricky.”
“What did you say?” asked Hava Bibi, her cheeks turning pale.
“About what?” said Uncle Shams.
“What
name
did you say?” repeated Hava Bibi, confusion clouding her eyes.
Uncle Shams frowned. “The new owner is named GhilzaiâGulbadin Ghilzai. Oh, there's an old uncle, too. Tofan.”
Hava Bibi's hand shook, and as if in slow motion, the tray slipped, sending white grains flying. All conversation stopped. Even the boys paused midchew.
“Bibi, are you all right?” asked Ariana's mom, getting up to help the older woman.
“Oh my goodness,” whispered Hava Bibi, slumping against the cushions.
“What is it, Mom?” asked Jamil.
“Remember the old story?” said Hava Bibi, looking agitated.
Ariana had leaned so far over the
dastarkhan
that her elbow was practically in the meatball stew. She had
never
seen Hava Bibi look flustered, not even when a car had hit Omar in front of the house. Her grandmother had flown into action and stopped the bleeding on his head while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. That was the incident that had left him with the scar that cut across his eyebrow.
“Which story?” asked Sara
Khala.
“The one about the goat!” cried Hava Bibi.
“I have a vague recollection of some such story,” Jamil said, picking up the rice that had flown into his lap.
“The old family feud, the one that started when our ornery old goat wandered onto our neighbor's landâthe neighbor was
Bawer Ghilzai
!”
“Do you think it's those Ghilzais?” said Uncle Shams, coughing as he swallowed a mouthful of lettuce.
Hava Bibi sat back, her face drawn. “Tofan ÂGhilzai was my friend, Dilshad's, brother. The feud that started over the goat ended with my father, Zia, shooting him!”
The entire story came flooding through Ariana's brain, and she rocked back on her heels.
“The shooting happened before you were born,” said Hava Bibi, twisting her hands into her scarf. “After that our families settled into an uncomfortable truce, but eventually war with the Soviets began and our village was bombed by Russian jets. All the families fled, and we ended up here.”
“So why are they here, opening a store in the same shopping complex as us?” said Uncle Shams, suspicion contorting his features.
“It's probably just a coincidence,” said Jamil.
“Coincidence?” said Uncle Shams, suddenly alert. “Somehow I don't think so.”
“Now, Shams,” said Hava Bibi, regaining her composure. “Jamil is probably right. Tofan and his nephew probably don't even know who we are. Shinwari is a common clan name.”
Uncle Shams sat back, hands folded across his ample belly, unconvinced. “This can't possibly be a coincidence.”
“Shams, you're getting worked up again,” warned Jamil.
“No, really,” said Shams. “Why else would they open a store at the opposite end of Wong Plaza from us? I bet they're continuing the feud and want
badal
, for Grandfather Zia shooting Tofan. They want to drive us out of business!”
