Saving Kabul Corner (8 page)

She knew that her father and uncle hadn't had anything to do with the mystery meat flyers.
But could it really be the Ghilzais?
Gulbadin could have had these printed up to accuse the Shinwaris of harassment, but that just didn't make any sense, especially since an accusation like this could damage Pamir Market's reputation. If customers really believed that the Ghilzais were selling horse meat as beef, everyone would be grossed out and wouldn't step foot into their store. She reread the section in English and found no clues as to who could be behind the flyer. She traced her fingers along the curved Farsi script, but despite all her mother's efforts to teach her, she couldn't read it. Maybe Hava Bibi could translate it for her. But no, her grandmother was at Uncle Shams's town house next door. That left her parents, whom she didn't want to bother. So that left one other person in the house who could read it.

• • • 

A frown marred Laila's usually smooth brow as she contemplated the Farsi script. Ariana sat next to her, tapping her foot impatiently as her cousin carefully reread the words over and over again, checking her Farsi-to-English dictionary.

“This is really badly written,” said Laila, turning to Ariana. “It's a literal translation—as if someone took an English-to-Farsi dictionary and just transcribed it, word by word, from English to Farsi. The grammar is really poor, and it sounds funny.”

“So whoever wrote it doesn't know Farsi that well?” Ariana pondered as Laila nodded. “But Gulbadin and his family are fluent in Farsi,” said Ariana.

Laila nodded, confusion marring her features. “I don't know why they would create such a badly written flyer, especially since it would hurt their business.”

Ariana frowned. It made no sense.
No sense at all
. “There's something fishy going on here.”

“Fishy?” repeated Laila.

Ariana laughed. “It's an Americanism. It means that something suspicious is going on—something doesn't smell right.”

“Oh. This is definitely fishy,” said Laila, looking at the flyer, her bright aquamarine eyes serious.

“Thank you, Laila,” said Ariana, “for helping me with this.”

“Why would you thank me?” said Laila, frowning. “We are family—we help each other, no matter what.”

Ariana gazed into Laila's face and found sincerity, along with a quizzical smile. It seemed like the envy and bitter feelings they'd held against each other were now a slowly fading memory. She returned Laila's smile, though her heart felt heavy. Something about the flyer just didn't feel right.

E
IGHT SLEEPY KIDS, ALONG
with Uncle Shams, squeezed into the minivan and headed toward Lake Elizabeth Park for the annual Festival of the Arts. Ariana sat in the third row, pressed against the window; she'd made sure not to get stuck in the middle of the boys. Laila was at the other end, watching Marjan drool in his sleep. She and Ariana shared a grin and settled in for the ride. Ariana sleepily rested her face against the cold glass, watching the sun inch up from beyond the hills. She spotted her mother and Sara
Khala
's crimson polka dot dress in the rearview mirror, following behind in the truck, which was packed with supplies. Her father was at the store, since it was open for business on Sunday. After the appearance of the flyers accusing Pamir Market of selling horse meat, business at Kabul Corner had picked up. But she didn't know if it was enough . . . enough for the new house. And she didn't dare bring up the topic with her parents, since they hadn't told the kids anything about forfeiting their deposit.

For the past six years Kabul Corner had had a booth at the festival—a mini stop for all things Afghan—pickles, jams, cookies, and a line of Afghan handcrafts made by women widowed during the country's many wars. Nasreen and Sara
Khala
had started a nonprofit business to help these women by selling their beautiful beaded handbags, embroidered shoes, and silver jewelry in America, then sending the money back to them.

Uncle Shams was lucky enough to find a parking spot close to the same booth they reserved every year, and Nasreen and Sara
Khala
pulled into the spot next to them. The kids tumbled out of the minivan, like sardines exiting a tin can.

“Ah, here we are again,” said Uncle Shams, taking a swig from his thermos of sweet tea.

Yes, indeed,
thought Ariana grumpily, peering down the street, which was shut down, allowing vendors to prepare their stalls.
Here we are again
. She eyed the line of booths, numbering close to seven hundred, wishing she were back in bed, snuggled beneath her soft quilt, listening to a snoring Hava Bibi.

“Okay, guys,” said Uncle Shams, rubbing his hands against the morning chill. “Get the tables out of the truck and start unloading.”

Zayd opened the truck doors, and the twins, wearing matching red woolen caps, climbed inside. Jointly carrying a foldable table, Ariana and Laila trekked over to booth 412, near one of the three entertainment stages, conveniently across from the food ­pavilion. The heavenly scent of frying funnel cakes, hot dogs, and cotton candy had begun to waft through the air. Ariana's stomach rumbled. Her brothers had finished the last of the cereal that morning, and there was no way she was going to touch a fried egg. A hot dog slathered with mustard sure sounded good right now. In addition to the usual fair food, many local restaurants and food trucks served their specialties—Thai noodles, falafel pitas, spicy tandoori chicken, and tacos brimming with shredded beef.

“No dawdling!” barked Uncle Shams as Baz and Marjan hauled boxes. “Okay, my beloved,” he said to his wife. “I need to talk to my buddies on the organization committee.”

“All right,
jaan
,” said Sara
Khala
, spreading out the red tablecloths.

“Call me if you need me,” said Uncle Shams, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Even though sales had picked up after the appearance of the mystery meat flyers, Ariana knew that her father and uncle were still brainstorming about how to bring in more customers. So Uncle Shams's goal at the festival was to do as much marketing as possible to drum up business.
We're fighting extinction
, she thought glumly.
It's the survival of the fittest
. In quiet companionship, she and Laila unpacked boxes, arranged packets of nuts, and stacked jars of honey in neat pyramids while watching the blues band onstage tune their instruments. Nasreen handed Ariana the wax earplugs she usually wore so that the music didn't bother her too much during the long day. The festival officially opened at ten, and they had just a couple of hours to set up.

Ariana laid out the hand-stitched purses, her mind wandering back to the flyers about Pamir Market. She and Laila had talked about it a lot over the past few days, and the more they discussed it, the more certain they felt that the Ghilzais couldn't possibly be behind them; it just didn't make sense to try to discredit their own store.
But if it wasn't them, who was it?
she thought, perplexed. They'd wanted to talk to Ariana's father about it, but whenever they'd seen him, his lips had been tight with worry about shrinking revenues, and they'd kept silent. They had no proof that the Ghilzais
hadn't
distributed the flyers, and they didn't have an alternative culprit who could be responsible. With a deep sigh Ariana tugged open another box of scarves, preparing for a long day ahead.

• • • 

“I'm so tired, I could pass out,” whined Omar as Baz collapsed on the grass, earning a dark look from Zayd.

Ariana agreed and passed her water bottle over to Hasan, who gave her a grateful smile. They'd been standing at the booth for hours, and she was tired of smiling and trying to explain the knot count on the half dozen handwoven carpets they had on display. Basically, the greater the number of knots that made up a rug, the better the quality. You had to flip a corner of the rug over to show interested customers the intricate rows of knots. Most people thought it was amazing that a girl her age knew this, but hey, she was Afghan. Most Afghans had dozens of carpets in their house, and kids grew up knowing good quality from bad, especially her, since her sensitive fingers could detect the quality of wool from its texture within seconds.

Somewhere in the next row Ariana could hear Uncle Shams talking to the other vendors, picking up news, talking about Kabul Corner's new line of frozen foods. His voice grew louder as he came closer, and Ariana saw that he was with an elegant older woman dressed in a neat black suit and turquoise blouse. She stood out from the casually attired crowd, especially since she was trailed by a group of equally well-dressed assistants, shaking hands, passing out leaflets.

“This is our booth,” said Uncle Shams, smiling widely. He introduced her to Nasreen and Sara
Khala
. “This is Ana Cardoso. She's a retired pediatrician from the school education board. She's running for mayor.”

“Of course,” said Nasreen, grabbing a leaflet and sticking it into the money box. “We've been following the race very closely.

Really?
thought Ariana. She'd never seen her mother pay attention to local politics, though Nasreen voted during presidential elections and watched international news closely.
Maybe this is what adults call white lies
.

“It's a very close race, so we need your vote,” said Ana, shaking their hands.

“We're very concerned about the funding cuts at the school,” said Sara
Khala
, who was forever complaining about the standards dropping.

Ariana nodded. Because of California's state budget cuts, school funding had been sharply reduced. At Brookhaven they'd nearly lost their art class, while physical education and band had been reduced to twice a week. Not that she played any instruments, but Mariam did—the trombone.

“We're all concerned, and education is my number one priority,” said Ana with a sad shake of her head.

“Good,” said Sara
Khala
and Nasreen together.

“As a mother of two girls, I know the importance of education and the access to quality health care,” said Ana. “The Fremont police and fire departments have endorsed me, since I've worked with them to improve safety and reduce crime. The other candidates aren't as focused on these things.” She angled her head back, and Ariana followed her gaze. At the far end of the street was another group visiting booths and shaking hands.

Aaah, the other candidate for mayor
, thought Ariana, squinting her eyes to catch a glimpse of who it was.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you,” said Ana, moving on with her entourage. “Don't forget to vote on the first Tuesday of November.”

“I liked her,” said Nasreen, and Sara
Khala
nodded in agreement.

“Here's the man she's running against,” whispered Shams. “He's a good guy too—his name is Ronald, Ronald Hammersmith.”

The name rang a bell in Ariana's mind—then she remembered the day she'd been in the garage, the day after they'd first learned about Pamir Market. Uncle Shams and her father had been talking outside, and she'd overheard her uncle mention that he'd gone to meet Ronald, who sat on the city's zoning board. Ronald had been sympathetic to the fact that a similar store was opening within the same plaza, but since their lease didn't have a non-compete clause, he'd told them that Lucinda could rent to whoever she wanted.
And that meant the stinking Ghilzais moved in
.

“We'll have to hear what he has to say too,” said Nasreen.

Within minutes Ronald was at the booth next door, chatting with the petite gray-haired vendor selling brightly painted pottery. Ariana eyed his casual attire—jeans and a Windbreaker, the complete opposite of his opponent, Ana Cardoso. With his long reddish hair tied back in a ponytail, he looked more like a surfer than a candidate for mayor.

“Smart urban renewal is very important for our city,” Ronald explained to the potter. “If we invest in renovating our shopping districts and bring in new restaurants and lovely businesses such as yours, ­Fremont will become a tourist destination.”

“Why, thank you,” the woman said, and blushed. “I've been looking for a nice location to expand my business, but it's been difficult.”

“Well, as mayor I can change that,” Ronald said, smiling. “I bring twenty years of real estate develop­ment experience coupled with a dedication to environ­mental responsibility. I'm convinced that with sustained land development we can keep Fremont prosperous and green. Both the Chamber of Commerce and the League of Small Businesses support my platform.”

A muscular young man in crisp khakis and a crew cut paused at Ronald's elbow and whispered something into his ear. As Ronald listened, Ariana blinked at a memory that flared in the back of her mind. She eyed Ronald's reddish hair and recalled that she'd seen him before but couldn't put her finger on when or where. Then again, his image was all over town—on posters, in the newspaper, and on local television shows. Before she could think further, his assistant pivoted and disappeared into the crowd. Another one of Ronald's assistants, a willowy woman with silvery blond hair and a bright smile, stepped forward to chat with Nasreen, breaking Ariana's line of sight. The woman handed her mother a leaflet, which Nasreen slipped into the money box next to Ana's. They began to talk, just as Zayd tugged Ariana's hair to get her attention.

“Hey, Ari, we're totally running low on almond cookies and the rose petal jam. Can you and Laila run back to the truck and get the last box?”

Ariana frowned. She wanted to stay and find out what Ronald had to say.

“Look, I would have made the twins do it, or Baz, but they've all disappeared.”

Laila, always agreeable, opened her mouth, but ­Ariana gave her a look to be quiet. She wasn't about to do her brother a favor without getting anything in return. She folded her arms across her chest and raised her eyebrow at him.

“Okay, I get it,” said Zayd. “Look, after you come back, I'll take over the booth and you and Laila can go have some fun.”

“Okay,” agreed Ariana with a satisfied grin.

Laila followed Ariana as she made her way past the food pavilion toward the parking lot. Shadows lengthened along the ground, indicating that dusk was a few short hours away.

“Well, at least we can
finally
have some fun soon,” said Ariana, a spring in her step.

“I've never been to a fair like this,” said Laila, her eyes wide, staring at a man contorting and twisting a long balloon into a bunny shape. “I hope we can see some of the performances.”

“Me too,” said Ariana, feeling lighthearted for the first time in a long time.

They paused a moment to admire a display of crystal earrings, then wandered past a clothing stall to their reliable beige truck. As they lugged the box of jam back to their booth, they spotted Hava Bibi.

“
Salaam alaikum,
girls,” Hava Bibi said as Zayd took the box.

“
Walaikum a'salaam,
” responded the girls, hurrying to join her.

Zayd took over the booth, and the trio wandered into the food pavilion to grab something to eat. Hava Bibi bought them frozen chocolate-covered bananas, and they strolled past stalls selling handmade candles, mosaics, and recycled handbags made out of old jeans. As Ariana took the last bite of her banana, they reached the second stage, where they stopped to watch a performance of
bharata natyam
, a classical south Indian dance. Three girls in elaborate silk saris and jewelry, and with marigolds in their hair, moved their bodies into intricate positions, accompanied by a troupe of tabla and sitar players.