A Cup of Friendship (17 page)

Yours, Rashif

Halajan had lowered her head. She was crying, tears that she’d probably kept deep in a well for all these years.

“Halajan,” Yazmina said softly, “I have no desire to hurt you. You’ve helped me more than words can say. And now, I can offer you something in return.”

“It has to be a trade,” said Halajan.

“It is a trade. You’re keeping my secret.” She put her hand lovingly on her stomach and continued, “And asking Mr. Jack if maybe he can help my sister.”

“No,” said Halajan. “Keeping your secret is a trade for keeping my secret. And asking for help to find Layla is what any good woman would do. But for the letters, something more.”

Yazmina knew that this old woman’s pride was stronger than her own, so she thought about it, and yes, there was something Halajan could do for her.

“Fabric,” she said. “I’d like you to help me buy some fabric.”

“Yes.” Halajan smiled. She wasn’t sure if Yazmina wanted to make her own pretty
shalwaar kameez
or a blanket for the baby to be wrapped in when they took it away, but it didn’t matter. Every project a person does, she knew, gets her one step deeper into life and closer to God.

A
n hour later Halajan and Yazmina were headed toward the Mondai-e. Halajan had lied to her son, who stayed behind to replace the broken toilet, telling him that they were going to Chicken Street. Instead, she and Yazmina had taken the bus, then were walking the remaining half mile with their heads bowed, their arms clenched in front of them to ward off the cold, when they heard the explosion, felt the earth move, and saw the buildings sway. They stopped where they were, ducked into a doorway, and smelled the smoke in the air. Then they saw it rise over the buildings exactly where they were headed.

“A bomb,” Halajan said, her face etched with fear. “At the market, I think. We must hurry.”

“Wait!” Yazmina tried to call to Halajan but she was already far ahead, running directly toward the blast, along with hundreds of other people.

Yazmina knew they should return to the coffeehouse, but she couldn’t let Halajan go alone, so she ran as fast as she could to catch up to her, weighed down by the baby, struggling to keep her in sight, watching for her purple scarf. Halajan seemed to have acquired the legs and wind of a child. She was so fast and agile as she dodged in and out of the chaos of the streets. People were running, screaming and bleeding; sirens were blaring, trying desperately to reach the bomb site. The police were everywhere, their weapons drawn, as if they had been hiding in the shadows knowing this was going to happen. The sky turned gray with soot and ash; the air was thick and it was difficult to breathe.

Finally, Yazmina reached her, pulled her arm at her elbow, and stopped her. “Halajan, we should go back.” She could see Halajan struggling to breathe. She was holding her chador over her mouth and nose, and her chest was heaving as if she couldn’t get enough oxygen to fill it.

“No, I must get to the marketplace. I must.… You return at once to the coffeehouse. I will follow shortly. Now go!”

“Halajan, you must come with me. It is too dangerous. I heard that there are usually two blasts: The first gets people to come, the second is for everyone who has arrived.”

“Go home and let me do what I have to.”

“If you go, I will go, too. I will not leave you alone.”

Halajan and Yazmina stood stubbornly, each waiting for the other to move. When neither did, Yazmina knew that Halajan would never return to the house without first being sure that Rashif had survived. “Okay, but quickly.”

They walked briskly through the narrow streets toward the river, the emergency vehicles passing them, their sirens blaring. People were running in all directions, shouting and screaming—a man carrying a wounded boy, his head falling back over the man’s arm, a woman in a burqa holding the hand of a young girl who was missing a shoe and had blood running down her leg, men with rifles, men with makeshift weapons. The closer they got to the market, the darker the air became, until it was a dense fog, almost impossible to see through.

Once there, they saw the devastation. They paused, glanced quickly at each other, their eyes tearing from smoke and fear, and reached out to each other, took hands, and entered the chaotic wreckage.

When the first bomb exploded, there was a mild rumble, a far-off sound like thunder. But thirty seconds later, there was a second bomb, much closer. The front window shattered and the brand-new wall came down. Sunny was sitting at the counter, ordering supplies from Dubai on her laptop, when she heard the first and felt the second. Time seemed to expand; a split second became five, as if in slow motion. It was disorienting, the sight of the thick, solid wall rolling and then, finally, crumbling to the ground. She turned quickly to Bashir Hadi, whose eyes, too, were on the wall. When he turned to find her, no words were necessary. His eyes held back tears, his face etched with disappointment.

After the dust settled in their front courtyard, they assessed the damage. The front window could be replaced—they had bought an extra glass pane the last time in case this happened, but the wall that faced the street needed complete rebuilding because the new section hadn’t set yet and its vulnerability had brought down the rest of the wall with it.

Sunny stood, wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, shook her head, and said, “Shit!”

Though the wall had been such an accomplishment, its destruction was nothing compared to the lives that had probably been lost in the explosion. Still, it was frustrating. Sometimes it felt as if she had taken one tiny step forward and two long steps backward in Kabul.

Bashir Hadi said, “That was close. As long as we’re all fine, this is nothing. We can rebuild. Just a few weeks to make the money—”

But Ahmet interrupted as he ran in from the back, yelling, “The bombs! My mother! Yazmina! They went to Chicken Street and have not yet returned. Miss Sunny, I must go.”

“They went to the Mondai-e,” Sunny said immediately. “Let me drive you.”

“Miss Sunny, I don’t think you should—” said Bashir Hadi.

“The Mondai-e?” Ahmet said with a mixture of worry and anger. “But she promised—”

“Poppy, come!” Sunny commanded the dog, who was immediately at her side. She grabbed her chador and coat, and Poppy’s leash. Then the three of them were out the door.

As they got into the car, her cellphone rang. It was Jack.

“We’re okay,” she said, “but Halajan and Yazmina went to the Mondai-e. Ahmet and I are taking the car—”

“The streets will be blocked in Qal-i-Fatula and the old city. The emergency vehicles, UN soldiers, the police. Don’t go. And there could be another bomb. In a car you’re a sitting duck. Halajan is a smart cookie. She will find their way back.”

“Unless they were hurt.”

“I’ll go on my motorbike. But you stay right where you are. Tell Ahmet that I can get there much faster.”

She didn’t want to argue. “Okay.”

He didn’t respond for a moment. Didn’t he trust her? “Okay. Call me when they get back.”

“You be careful.”

“Sunny—”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Just take care, okay?”

“I have Poppy. But Jack, who’s protecting you?”

The streets were filled with broken glass. Yazmina’s feet were bleeding, her plastic shoes little protection from the rivers of shards. People were running toward the blast instead of away, and Halajan wanted to shout at them to go home, that running to the scene was exactly what the terrorists wanted. Emergency vehicles were speeding in both directions—to pick up the injured, the dying, and take them to the hospital and return again for more.

An entire block of shops was in smoky rubble. Yazmina’s favorite dress store, the bookstore, and several others had been razed to the ground. But Rashif’s store was still farther on, if it remained at all.

Halajan, who had never been a religious person, who felt strongly that strict beliefs were precisely what kept women imprisoned, whether behind bars or burqas, prayed now, quietly, under her breath. If there was a God, if Muhammad could, indeed, get his people to accept why the mountain hadn’t come to him, then he certainly could, please, let Rashif be safe.

What kind of person kills others in this way?
she cursed to herself. Animals, which were beneath the human being, without the capacity to talk, reason, and think, weren’t low enough to compare to the uncivilized, ignorant, and hate-filled people who bomb busy streets.

Finally, they arrived. The shop was still standing, but the electricity had gone out so it was dark inside. The glass was blown out of the front windows and door as well, which Halajan opened carefully. As she did, more glass fell from the frame.

“Be careful,” she said sternly to Yazmina. “You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“You cannot go in alone. Who knows what you might find. Including looters and thieves. It’s dangerous.”

Halajan smiled. “And you will protect me?”

“You would be surprised how strong I am,” Yazmina replied.

“I don’t think I would.” She smiled and turned and the two women went through the door.

“Rashif!” Halajan called. “Rashif, are you here? Hello!”

“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?” he said as he came through a curtain in the back. “Halajan! Am I glad to see you. I was worried that—” He rushed to her, but seeing Yazmina, he stopped himself and said, “It is not safe. You must go.”

Halajan noticed that his clothes were torn and dirty, his face blackened, and his head bleeding. “You are hurt.”

Yazmina’s presence prevented any further talk, and Rashif said it again, but more forcefully this time: “You must go. It is dangerous. Return to your home.”

Halajan’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t understand how, even when faced with death, the old habits and rules still prevailed. Even for someone as open-minded as Rashif.

“Let us go,” she said quietly to Yazmina, and walked out.

They had taken only a few steps when they heard Rashif’s voice calling for Halajan. She turned. He was waving at her. “You left your fabric in the shop. I know how you like the scraps,” he said.

“Wait here,” Halajan said to Yazmina. “I’ll be only a moment.”

Halajan followed Rashif back into his store. He handed her a small bag filled with fabric scraps, and by the look in his eyes, his letter.

She looked outside at Yazmina, who was helping a little boy who was crying. Halajan saw Yazmina take his hand, looking around as if for his mother. She then said loudly to Rashif, “Thank you. I will use them for patching.” And then whispering, “And guard it with my heart.”

He smiled. “And yet,” he said, “you do not answer my letters. After all this time, look around you. Life is short. In a wisp, a blast, a stupid idiot’s bomb, we could be gone. Why don’t you answer me?”

Halajan paused, watching as a woman approached Yazmina and took the little boy in her arms. Halajan was trying to find words, a reason, something to tell him. “Because no words can express what I feel.”

Rashif laughed. “Are you certain that is the reason? Maybe you don’t share my feelings. Maybe …” He turned away.

“Rashif, of course I do. How can you not think that?”

“Because our communication is very one-sided.”

“I come the distance to see you. You keep us close while we’re apart.”

“I suppose that’s fair, but I long for a letter from you. Any words are good. Please try to find them for me.”

“Oh,” said Halajan, “I have them, I know where they are. It is just that my heart, well, ‘the most living moment comes’ when we meet each other’s eyes and what flows between us.”

“That’s beautifully said.”

“Rumi, not me.”

“You give Rumi a beautiful voice. Look,” he said, as he went back into his store. He returned with a small package in his hand. “This is for you.”

Halajan untied the string that held some brown paper around what felt like a book. Fear rose in her and made her forehead perspire. It was a book. She knew it had to be a collection of Rumi poems.

“So read one to me,” Rashif said. “Just one and I will think you wrote it for me.”

“But which one? I cannot pick.” Why was he doing this today, of all days? Perhaps, she thought, it was because of the bombing that he was pushing her so.

“Here,” he said, and opened the book haphazardly. “This.” He pointed to a page with few words.

Halajan took the book, pretending to read the poem to herself. Then she looked up at Rashif. “I do not like that one.” She turned the pages again and again, pretending she was searching for just the right poem. Then she stopped and said, “How about this one?” She prayed to Allah that she got the page right and she recited from memory:

Soul receives from soul that knowledge
,
Therefore, not by book nor from tongue
.
If knowledge of mysteries come after emptiness of mind
,
That is illumination of heart
.

A loud crash interrupted them, and suddenly Yazmina rushed into the shop. It wasn’t a bomb but perhaps a falling building.

“We must go,” said Halajan, feeling as if she were spared from lying and being humiliated. “Were you able to help that little boy?” she asked Yazmina.

“Yes, thank Muhammad.”

“Good-bye then,” said Rashif. “Enjoy the fabric. Thank you for my poem.”

Halajan smiled sadly. “Come, Yazmina, we must go.” She nodded toward the cut on his head. “Wash that and clean it, then apply a salve.” She put the book into her bag.

Rashif answered, “I’ve had cuts before.” He smiled.

Once out on the street, Yazmina instinctively covered her belly with her arm as if to protect it. “We must get back to the house. This filthy air cannot be good for anyone.”

And they headed through the decimated streets toward home, each carrying her own secret.

Rashif watched them go from his broken doorway and observed the tumult in the streets. It had quieted down, sirens were few, and the night had been taken over by sleep and the fears of another day.

All this time and not a letter from Halajan. At first he thought his feelings were unrequited, but when she returned to his shop week after week, he knew better. Then he rationalized that she was just shy, not wanting to share her thoughts. Eventually, he suspected that perhaps she was unable to write. And maybe, also, unable to read. Now his suspicions were confirmed. The poem Halajan had recited was certainly not the poem on that page. It was close, though. If she had flipped one more page, she would’ve gotten it right. But, apparently, Allah felt it was time for him to know the truth. All these years and all these letters and she had never read one. Because she couldn’t. He had never wanted to humiliate her. But feeling the thunder of the bomb under his feet, seeing its destruction, knowing people had died—loved ones, mothers, sisters, children, fathers—he had to know, now, today, this moment. He would change none of his habits. He would continue to write, to pour his feelings onto the elegant paper. And he would continue to love his proud Halajan. One day soon, they would be together, and he would kiss her and teach her to read Rumi for herself.