Saving Kabul Corner (9 page)

As Ariana, Laila, and their grandmother moved to occupy one of the free tables, Hava Bibi's steps faltered and she reached out to grab a chair.

“Are you okay?” asked Laila, taking Hava Bibi's arm.

Hava Bibi nodded, but her face had gone pale, matching the creamy whiteness of her headscarf. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

Ariana saw an old man striding toward them, leaning heavily on a cane. The man was dressed in dapper gray trousers, a white shirt, and a tweed coat, and his silver hair was combed back and set with pomade. His bright blue eyes were focused like lasers on her grandmother. As if that weren't jarring enough, right behind him was Wali, who glowered when he spotted Ariana.

“Hava, is that you?” called out the old man, his voice raspy.

Two spots of pink appeared on Hava Bibi's cheeks. “Oh my goodness. Tofan, is that
you
?”

Tofan.
The name started bells ringing in Ariana's head.
This is the man my great-grandfather shot.

“Yes, it's me,” said Tofan. “After all these years, how are
you
?”

“Fine . . . just fine,” said Hava Bibi, flustered. “And you? What about Dilshad?”

“I'm in good health and so is Dilshad,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “She lives in London and has eight grandchildren.”

“You must give me her phone number,” said Hava Bibi with a wistful smile. “I do so miss my old friend.”

“But of course,” said Tofan. “Do you remember how you girls got stuck on Kunar River when my sister had the bright idea of taking out our father's old boat?”

Hava Bibi laughed, her face lighting up. “Yes, I remember. My goodness—we had no idea the boat had a huge hole! We would have drowned if you hadn't swum out and pulled us back to shore!”

What's going on?
thought Ariana, exchanging a guarded look with Laila, who clutched a melting banana.
Why is Hava Bibi being so friendly to a Ghilzai?

Remembering the horse meat flyers, Ariana stiffened, her gaze colliding with Wali's. He looked as surprised as she felt, and conflicting emotions of anger and confusion flitted across his face.

“How is your leg?” asked Hava Bibi, her brows knitted in concern.

“It bothers me only on rainy days,” he said with a laugh. Then his handsome features crinkled with worry. “You must know what is going on between the boys. It's just like it was back in Afghanistan. It's madness.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” replied Hava Bibi. “I told my sons that the feud between our fathers was left behind in Afghanistan. I convinced my eldest, Jamil, to welcome your nephew to the plaza.”

“I told Gulbadin about the feud as well,” said Tofan, “and advised him to be friendly toward your sons.”

“Well, it seemed like things were okay, at first,” said Hava Bibi, frowning. “But then our baker, Haroon, left to work at your nephew's store. It was then that things got tense and the rumors of the feud started up.”

Tofan lowered his eyes, appearing a little guilty. “I'm afraid that was my fault.”

“What do you mean?” prodded Hava Bibi.

“An old family friend was visiting last month, and we took him to Kandahar Kebob House. He started swapping stories from the old days, and soon everyone in the restaurant knew about the ­Shinwari-Ghilzai feud and that darn mangy goat. They all thought it was hilarious, and one thing led to another, and it's become a tasty bit of gossip floating around town.”

Hava Bibi gave him a stern look, then sighed. “Well, what's done is done. But now the boys are arguing about those silly flyers. Honestly, I can't make head nor tail of it.”

“Neither can I,” said Tofan. “Gulbadin always respects and listens to me, but out of stubborn pride he won't meet with your sons to resolve the situation.”

Surprised, Ariana shared a confused look with Wali.

Just as Hava Bibi was about to say something else, they heard the high-pitched timber of a familiar voice. It was Uncle Shams, and he was headed this way. Tofan and Ariana's grandmother exchanged a knowing look, and he and Wali melted back into the crowd.

• • • 

That night, when they returned home, Jamil asked Ariana to take the money box to the garage and bring him the cash. He wanted to make a deposit at the bank so that the money wouldn't be lying around the house. Ariana knew the drill. She lugged the box to the garage and twisted the key in the old, temperamental lock. She gave it a quick jiggle, and it popped open. As she put the money, mostly twenties, into the money bag, she couldn't help but think back to the strange meeting at the fair. It seemed like her grandmother and Wali's great-uncle knew each other really well, which had surprised her and Wali both.

After scooping out all the change, Ariana found a bunch of flyers at the bottom of the box. They were the political leaflets her mother and Sara
Khala
had collected from the various political candidates who had been making their rounds at the fair. She spotted Ana's name on a pale blue flyer. Beneath it was Ronald's smiling face on a beautiful shade of ­viridian green. The bold headline on his campaign flyer promised to bring “Change with Conscience.” There were words such as “environmental responsibility,” ­“sustainable urban renewal,” and “land ­management.” Not knowing whether her mom wanted to keep them or not, she left them stacked on the corner of the desk. Before Ariana left the garage, she absentmindedly drew another
X
on her calendar.

A
RIANA CAME FACE-TO-FACE WITH
Wali as she exited language arts class. He was leaning against the lockers, holding the collection box for Kids in Need. She was on her way to meet Josh to work on their Egypt project, and her thoughts were focused on how to convince her obtuse partner that they should build a model pyramid of Giza. Before Ariana could pivot and turn away from Wali, she was propelled toward him, buffeted by the stream of kids scrambling to get to their next class. In a desperate move to escape, she stumbled, but before she landed on her butt, Wali grabbed her arm. After steadying her, he pulled her toward the lockers.

“Are you okay?” he asked, jerking away his hand as if she'd bite it.

“Uh, thanks,” said Ariana. “I'm fine.” As she looked into his chocolate-brown eyes, she saw them brimming with uncertainty, a feeling of confusion that mirrored her own. For a split second she was tempted to talk to him about the horse meat flyers and her suspicions, but her tongue stayed glued to the roof of her mouth.

Wali opened his lips to say something, but his name rang out through the hall.

“Wali,” trilled a high-pitched feminine voice, “is that
bully
bothering you?”

It was Patty and her crew, standing by the water fountain.

Wali reddened. “No, we're just talking.”

“I've got to go . . . work on my project,” mumbled Ariana, thinking of Josh waiting for her in the library. With a last glance in his direction, she stalked past the water fountain, ignoring Patty's disdainful look. As the distance between her and Wali widened, she couldn't help but feel like she'd missed an important opportunity. The rest of the day she kept an eye out for him, hoping she'd get the nerve to talk to him, but the chance never came.

• • • 

“Ari, there was a massacre in Nanger Khel,” whispered Laila, leaning toward her on the kitchen table. Laila's daily routine had her glued to the Internet after school, scouting the latest news on Afghanistan. Her father was back at work, making his rounds with American troops, and she was counting the days till he was done.

Ariana blinked in alarm as Laila continued. “The Polish army bombed a village called Nanger Khel, in
badal
for the death of their soldier in Gardez.”

“In
badal
?” whispered Ariana, the dumpling in her hand forgotten.

“Yes,” replied Laila. “When they shelled the village, many civilians were killed—a pregnant woman and children, including a baby.”

“That's awful,” said Ariana, aghast.

“What are you two whispering about?” asked Hava Bibi, taking a pot of homemade yogurt from the fridge. “Did I hear ‘Gardez'?”

Laila nodded as Ariana got busy crimping the homemade dumplings. They were helping Hava Bibi make
aushak
, a kind of ravioli filled with leeks and spices. After Laila dropped spoonfuls of the leek mixture into wonton wrappers, Ariana then pinched the sides together to make a dumpling. It would then be steamed and drizzled with meat sauce and yogurt.

Hava Bibi paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “My father used to travel to Gardez for business at the Bazar-e Kohna, the old bazaar. He once brought back an ancient Greek coin for me.”

“There were Greeks in Afghanistan?” asked ­Ariana, dumplings again forgotten.

“Oh, yes,” said Hava Bibi. “The writing on the coin translated to ‘the Victorious.'”

“It was the Greek king, Antimachus II Nikephoros,” said Laila. “He was called ‘the Victorious' because he ruled all the way from the Hindu Kush to present-day India.”

“Smart girl,” said Hava Bibi, and Ariana had to agree. “Well,” reminisced their grandmother with a frown, “Gardez was also home to Najibullah—the last Soviet-backed president of Afghanistan. He was hanged by the Taliban when they came to power in 1996.”

Ariana winked at Laila, who hid a smile; a history lesson was coming.

Hava Bibi leaned against the counter with a frown. “Even though Najibullah was a communist puppet, that's no way to treat a human being. It's a shame that all the changes King Zahir Shah brought to ­Afghanistan in the 1960s didn't stick,” she added. “What did they teach you about him at the lycée, Laila?”

“Our teacher told us that the king instituted the first constitution, turning Afghanistan into a democracy. He formed a parliament that established civil rights for all Afghans, in particular for women.”

“That's right,” said Hava Bibi with a sad sigh. “When Jamil was nearly four years old, we had our first elections in Afghanistan. But sadly, the king made a terrible mistake.”

“What?” Ariana blurted out. Her parents didn't talk about Afghan history, and it wasn't anything the teachers in the United States ever covered in school.

“As the government set up modern industries, they accepted aid from the Soviet Union, the same country that would invade them two decades later, and depose Zahir Shah as the last king. Then, when the Soviets realized they could never subjugate the Afghan people, they fled, leaving Najibullah, who ended up hanging from a light pole. But in the end who suffers?” muttered Hava Bibi. “It's the common people, that's who. Years of war have brought nothing but poverty, illiteracy, sickness, and death.”

“Oh,” said Ariana in a small voice. It was because of the Soviet invasion that her family had left Afghanistan in the first place.

The phone rang, interrupting the conversation.

Ariana wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and picked it up. “This is Officer Nguyen with the Fremont Police Department,” said a deep voice. “Can I speak to Jamil Shinwari, please?”

“Uh, sure,” said Ariana, a trickle of dread oozing through her. “Hold on. Let me get him.”
What do the police want with Dad?

Ariana hurried toward the garage, where her father was working on an endless pile of paperwork.

“It's for you,” she whispered, handing him the phone. “It's a policeman,” she added, stepping aside, hoping he wouldn't send her away.

“This is Jamil Shinwari,” said her father, seeming to forget that she was even there. Ariana watched her father's face go pale as he clutched the phone to his ear. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed.

Ariana's heart rammed against her rib cage.
What happened?

“How much damage?” asked Jamil. He paused for a few minutes, listening. “I'll be right there.” He hung up and dialed another number. “Shams, it's me, Jamil,” he said in a rush. “Meet me at the store as soon as you can—it's urgent.”

He jumped up from his chair and headed into the house, with Ariana at his heels. He shouted up the stairs for Zayd and grabbed the car keys sitting on the hall table.

“What's up, Dad?” asked Zayd, hurrying downstairs.

“Just come with me,” said Jamil, his usually controlled voice cracking.

“Sure,” said Zayd, grabbing a coat.

“I want to come,” said Ariana, expecting her father to say no. But to her surprise he just nodded, running a distracted hand through his hair as he dashed out of the house.

• • • 

Officer Nguyen and his partner stood beside their squad car, its red-and-blue lights flashing in the empty plaza. Jamil pulled in next to them and ordered ­Ariana and Zayd to remain in the car. Ariana managed to lower the window a bit before her father turned off the ignition and leapt out.

“Mr. Shinwari?” asked Officer Nguyen as her father hurried over.

“Yes, I'm Jamil Shinwari. What happened?”

“We were called to the scene by a Mr. Martinez, proprietor of Juan More Tacos. As Mr. Martinez was closing up, he noticed that the door to your store was wide open. He investigated and then called 911.”

Zayd gave Ariana a worried look. “What's going on?” he whispered.

“I don't know any more than you do,” replied ­Ariana. Neither of them had uttered a word during the tense six-minute drive to Wong Plaza, nor had they asked their obviously agitated father any questions.

The officers and Jamil walked into Kabul Corner as one of the policemen took notes. After what seemed like a good half hour, the police left the store and drove away, leaving Jamil inside. Fidgety from being cooped up in the car, Zayd couldn't take it anymore. He hopped out of the backseat, with Ariana right behind him. They scurried toward the door of the store, which gaped open.

Ariana peered inside, spotting an overturned spice rack lying across the entrance. The ground was streaked with cumin, dried mint, cinnamon, and red pepper.

“What the—,” whispered Zayd, his face going pale.

Ariana's throat tightened as she surveyed the store; it looked like an IED had exploded inside. She blinked, not believing what she saw. The cash register lay a few feet from the counter where it had been yanked from the wall. The new freezer's doors hung drunkenly agape, and the new line of frozen kebobs, melting and turning into mush, were on the floor next to overturned nut bins. Everywhere she looked was ­destruction—torn packaging and broken glass lay strewn in the aisles; the contents of shattered jars littered the linoleum; jams oozed and mixed with ­pickles, olives, and tomato sauce.

“Oh, no,” whispered Ariana, shivering.

Zayd reached out and slipped an arm around her shoulders in a protective hug. She stood there, huddling next to her brother's warmth, as they stared at their father. Jamil picked up the cash register, tears gleaming in his eyes. Then he paused, seemingly immobilized by the carnage before him. Ariana sunk deeper into shock. She'd never seen her father cry, except when Masood
Baba
, her grandfather, had lain dying at the hospital.

“Who did this?” Zayd whispered out loud.

“They don't know,” said Jamil. “Juan found the store like this and called the cops.”

As they stood at the front of the store, surveying the damage, Uncle Shams's minivan screeched to a halt outside. He tumbled out with Baz and Marjan trailing behind. “Oh my goodness,” he said with a gasp as he viewed the destruction. “We're ruined!” he cried, deflating against the counter as if someone had let the air out of his body.

Jamil blinked, coming out of his stupor. He glanced at the kids as they stood, wide-eyed with fear. “Now, Shams,” he began, his voice ragged but calm. “I know it looks bad, but we can clean this up.”

“This is thousands and thousands of dollars' worth of damage,” muttered Uncle Shams, looking around in a daze.

“Don't worry,” soothed Jamil. “I'll call the insurance company first thing in the morning and file a claim, once I have a copy of the police report.”

Uncle Shams sat on a stool behind the counter, holding his head in his hands.

While Zayd called their mom and Sara
Khala
, ­Ariana and her cousins headed back to the bakery, which was covered with a layer of flour. All the bags had been slashed and the contents strewn everywhere.

“Man, it looks like snow,” said Baz, wielding a broom.

Marjan nodded, his round face crumpling. “Who'd do this?” he whispered.

“Don't worry about that now,” said Ariana, giving him an awkward hug. Marjan wrapped his pudgy arms around her and wiped his nose on her shoulder.
Eeeww,
thought Ariana, but she resisted the temptation to shove him off.

Marjan stepped back, a little embarrassed. “C'mon. Let's clean this up.”

Ariana returned to the front of the store with garbage bags so that she could start sorting through what could be salvaged and what couldn't. She shut the front door and stood at the window, gazing across the deserted parking lot. Beyond the flickering sign with the missing
g
sat the dilapidated auto parts warehouse, which now had a
sold
sign hanging on it. Someone had finally bought the eyesore.

“Ariana
jaan
,” called her father. “Can you please get us the mops?”

Ariana nodded, stepping over the torn velvet ­cushions. She held back a gag reflex from the caustic stench of vinegar, mustard, and cayenne pepper swirling together like a witch's brew. Nose held between her fingers, Ariana hurried back to the supply room. Wishing she had some cotton balls to stick in her nose, she pushed open the door and found overturned boxes and supplies.

As she exited, she heard Uncle Shams's angry voice reverberating near the back door. “It was those thieving Ghilzais!”

“Now, Shams . . . ,” began Jamil, attempting to hold back his brother's flood of words.

“Of course it's them! All our problems began when they moved in next door. Only they would gain from driving us out of business.”

“Don't jump to conclusions, Shams,” cautioned Jamil. “The police don't have any clues as to who did this.”

Ariana could just imagine her uncle inflated like a puffer fish filled with air. “Until there is proof otherwise, I am convinced that it's those Ghilzais.”