A Cup of Friendship (18 page)

Jack weaved through the streets, driving between cars and through the traffic, in and out of people streaming away from the bomb site. It would be almost impossible to find Yazmina and Halajan in this turmoil. When he finally reached the Massoud Circle, about halfway between the coffeehouse and the market, a third blast occurred, throwing him twenty feet from his motorbike and sending stone, debris, and glass on top of him.

What he couldn’t have known as he lay there, with a terrible shooting pain in his left arm and blood trickling into his mouth, was that Yazmina and Halajan were far from the Mondai-e and almost back home when the third blast occurred. So he forced his way up from under the rubble, growing faint from the pain from a cut in his head and from his obviously broken arm, and headed toward the blast to find the two women. But he didn’t make it. He fell to the ground, lost consciousness, and wouldn’t wake again until he was in a hospital bed.

Sunny was up on her rooftop looking out over the city. The areas where the three bombs had exploded were still bright from fires that had yet to be put out, the smoke rising against the sky, which had taken on a ghostly orange cast from the reflection of fire and emergency lights. Sirens wailed through the night air, but the coffeehouse was still. Yazmina and Halajan had already returned. They had bandaged Yazmina’s feet and boarded up the front window, and now everyone was asleep in their own rooms—but she hadn’t heard from Jack and she wouldn’t sleep until she did.

She feared that Kabul would never change, that the incessant, pervasive violence undermined any potential for its people. And now the inane bombs might have hurt someone she deeply cared about. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Knowing Jack, he was probably helping get people out from under the rubble, but it was also possible that he was one of those people himself. Who would be helping him? The thought of losing him struck her hard and threw her. If Tommy walked through her door right now she wouldn’t care the way she would’ve a month ago. Why does it take terrible moments in life, like this, to make you realize what’s important? She stamped the floor of the roof, wishing she were the kind of woman to appreciate the sweet moments, the lovely times.

And then her cellphone rang. It was her worst nightmare—the hospital. She reeled at the news but there was no time to waste. She was out the door and in her car in two minutes flat, with Poppy in the front passenger seat.

The hospital was teeming with people, the emergency room filled with blood, cries, and anguish. Sunny didn’t even try to ask at the desk. Instead she pushed through the doors and ran down the hallways, checking every room. She knew from the call that he was alive. She also knew he’d been injured, and she had no idea how badly.

And then she found him. In a room with eight beds, and as many people with a variety of cuts and casts, stitches and wraps. His face was swollen, his head bandaged, his arm in a sling. When he saw her, he tried to smile but instead let out a groan.

“Nice to see you, too,” she said, her throat aching with her efforts to hold back her tears.

“It only hurts when I laugh,” he said, his face a mess of bruises and scratches.

“You look like shit.” She put her hand on his forehead, careful not to touch the bandage that crossed the top of his head.

“Over a hundred stitches,” he said proudly. “I’ll never grow hair there again.”

She laughed. “Nobody will notice. You had so little already.” She held his good hand firmly, blinking back tears.

“It was a close one,” he said, squeezing her hand.

She didn’t have a clever response to that, and so she just stood, holding his hand until he fell asleep. Only then did she let herself cry.

J
ack came to say good-bye. It was a sunny afternoon five days after the bombs had rocked the city. Two dozen people had been killed, and almost a hundred injured, which everybody felt was a miracle because there could’ve been so many more. In the few days since, the Mondai-e had already been cleared and repairs had begun. Sunny didn’t know if this was a good or bad thing, but Kabul residents had become efficient when it came to bombings. The coffeehouse’s front window glass was back in place; the pieces of the destroyed wall had been carted away. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and they were hoping for a big crowd and, once again, to begin the process of raising enough money to rebuild the wall.

Sunny was working on her laptop, now that service had finally been restored, when Jack came through the door. His arm was in a cast held by a sling, his head still in its bandage to protect the hundred stitches he’d received.

But today he looked serious. He didn’t sit at his usual table or make a joke or wave at Bashir Hadi. He walked straight up to Sunny and said quietly, “I have to talk to you. Outside.”

He took her arm and they went to the courtyard. It was cool, but the sun was bright, the sky blue. Sunny would remember this later when she thought about their conversation.

“I have to go home,” he said in his direct way. He shook his head, looked down to the ground, then straight into her eyes. “This thing that happened, I, well, I can’t die here without seeing my son again. Or without trying to make it work with Pamela.”

Sunny couldn’t breathe. She tried to fight back her tears, but they filled her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks. Jesus H, she thought. This isn’t about
you
. It’s about him. Let him go.

“I don’t know if … or when … I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that I have to go.”

But she couldn’t stop herself from saying something. “You’ve been in many more dangerous situations than that stupid bomb. So you broke your arm, got a few stitches. You’ve had much worse. Your family knows what you’re doing, how important your work is.” She hated how selfish and stupid she sounded.

“I know. But something about this … It’s not just what happened—I know it’s just a broken arm, for crying out loud! But Kabul, the entire country, is changing, and look, it’s only going to get more dangerous. I can’t leave my son without a father. And Sunny, you should think about leaving, too. Going back.”

Sunny knew what he was saying was true, but she couldn’t think of leaving Kabul. Not yet. She wasn’t finished. Something held her. And what about Tommy? He was bound to show up sooner or later … if he was still alive.

“Though,” Jack continued, “without you, everything would seem—”

“Me?”

“You have to know.”

No
, she thought,
don’t say it, not now, when you’re leaving
. “What do you mean? Know what?”

He took a deep breath, and then again, as if there wasn’t enough air in this entire country to reach his lungs. Then he pulled her by her elbow, through the front door, and seeing Bashir Hadi in the kitchen and nobody else in the room, he pulled her into the closet and closed the door. He said, “Sunny,” and he kissed her. He kissed her like she’d never been kissed before. His lips parted and so did hers and his body pressed into hers up against the wall. They could’ve made love right there and then, but they knew what they were doing was disrespectful and foolish enough.

He pulled away.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “If I even—”

“Don’t go. I know I shouldn’t say that. But please, don’t go.”

He held her face with his good hand and said, “That’s all I wanted to hear from you.”

“It makes me horrible, right? You want to go home to your family, your son, your
wife
, and I say don’t.” She tried to look away from him, but his hand held her there. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

He kissed her again, softly this time, his hand now on her neck. “I’ll see you,” he said, and then he was gone.

Yazmina watched Jack come out of the closet and then walk out of the café. She was disappointed, because she’d thought that maybe tonight Halajan would talk to him about Layla, now that he was out of the hospital and back on his feet.

Then Sunny appeared from the closet and shut the door behind her. She smiled at Yazmina, though she looked embarrassed and upset. Still, Yazmina couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Will Mr. Jack come
zut
?”

Sunny smoothed her blouse over her jeans and put a hand through her hair. She didn’t look at Yazmina. But she said, “I don’t know, Yazmina, if he’ll be back soon. Who the hell knows? And I don’t care.”

Yazmina felt weak and took hold, with a tight grip, to the back of a chair to steady herself. If he was gone, there was no chance they’d ever get Layla by the time the snows had vanished from the mountains. She turned back to her cleaning duties and was overcome with sadness. For Sunny, for Jack, and for her beloved sister, whose destiny was written by the drug lords and now there was no way in heaven or on earth to change it.

I
sabel couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to the woman and her baby at the poppy fields. She was aware of the possibilities, and there were few: She’d been beaten, perhaps hospitalized, or even killed; she’d been put in jail, where women who committed “moral crimes,” such as adultery, marrying men of their own choosing, running away from an abusive husband, or shaming the family were often sent; she’d been committed to the insane asylum, where women were put for the same reasons; or she had died of self-immolation, the terrible decision made by an increasing number of Afghan women to commit suicide by dousing themselves with cooking oil and setting themselves on fire.

At the coffeehouse that Wednesday night, after several cups of wine, she told Sunny where she was going and what to do if she wasn’t back in a week. She took out her notepad and pen, scribbled something on it, ripped out the piece of paper, and handed it to Sunny.

“Here’s the number of my boss at the BBC, and my producer, too. And here’s the number of my cousin in London, who I don’t talk to much, but I’m hopeful the old tosser will provide some help if you need any. Thank you, Sunny. I know we haven’t been friends long, but it feels good between us, wouldn’t you agree? It’s as if we have.”

Sunny folded the paper into a neat square, stood, and put it in the pocket of her jeans. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” she said, putting a hand on Isabel’s. And then in a futile attempt to lift her spirits she added, “So stop with the drama queen shit.”

But Isabel didn’t crack a smile.

Sunny leaned toward her and again put her hand on hers. “Women disappear all the time in this country. Not that we shouldn’t be concerned, but why is this one so important to you? It wasn’t your fault. You saw her smoking. You saw her beaten. That’s why you were there. To see.”

Isabel tossed back a cup of the wine she’d brought. “That’s what we journos do, all right. We see. And then we don’t do bloody hell about it.”

“But you do. Without you—”

“Sorry, love, but without me, the world keeps on spinning.”

Sunny straightened and put her hands on her hips.

“What’s up with you tonight, huh?”

“Me? I know a bit about violence. About women who—” Isabel shook her head to stop the tears pricking her eyes. “Oh, bollocks.” She felt ridiculous! It was the stupid wine talking.

“What is it?” asked Sunny.

Isabel didn’t answer. She just looked away.

“Come with me,” Sunny said. And she led Isabel up to the roof.

The night was balmy, spring winds drifting from the mountains in the east. The sky was dark but not yet black. The sun was setting later now and there was a dramatic streak of red and purple where sky met land. Sunny’s easel was silhouetted against the low light, her paints and palette sitting on a small table.

“So, we’re alone. You can talk to me,” said Sunny.

“Who’s the painter?” Isabel asked, delaying.

“I guess that would be me.”

“I didn’t know.”

Sunny looked at the easel, shook her head. “I don’t tell too many people. It’s just a silly hobby. But they’ll all know too soon, because I’m thinking of painting the new wall. Now, please—”

“You mean a mural? Of what?”

“I don’t know. Animals, a jungle. Ridiculous, right?”

“I don’t know about the jungle, really. Maybe something more—I don’t know
—indigenous
, perhaps, to Kabul?”

“You have a point,” Sunny said, with a tilt of her head. She was hurt by Isabel’s sarcastic tone, but she knew that something bigger was bothering her, and she was intent on finding out what.

Isabel walked to the edge of the roof and looked out over the city. She was silent for a long time.

Sunny walked up to her, put a hand on her arm, and finally said, “You know, sometimes it’s better to talk ab—”

Isabel pulled away without looking at her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Things happen in our lives that we think nobody else could understand.”

“That’s for sure.”

“But you’d be surprised.”

Isabel spun around and glared at her. “Oh yeah? What happened to you, Sunny? Whatever could’ve happened to you that you couldn’t talk about? Smoked too much weed? Got drunk? Had sex with the wrong guy? Come on, Sunny. There are things, and then there are things.”

“You think you have the lock on bad things happening? You’re the only one?” Sunny frowned and nodded. “Makes you feel more special? Gives you a reason to be distant and aloof and very utterly British, does it?”

Isabel could feel her anger rising, her blood pumping. “What the fuck do you know?”

“This is what I know. I know what it’s like to be hit by your own dad. And I mean hit, like with a fist, like thrown across the room. I know what it’s like to watch your mother beaten by her husband, and then beg him not to leave her. Until he finally does and then she spends the rest of her life living in a muumuu, depressed and chain-smoking.”

Isabel looked at her, her face softening, a small smile forming. “That’s not bad.”

“It’s the truth,” Sunny said. “Now tell me.”

“All right then,” she said softly. “I’ll tell you. I was raped. Okay?”

“Isabel,” Sunny whispered.

Isabel turned away from her.

And then she turned back, her face angry, her chest heaving. “In Sierra Leone, last year. At knifepoint. And as if that wasn’t enough, the wanker butted me in the face with his rifle when he was done and knocked out my front teeth.” She grinned crazily. “You see? Whiter than white. Faker than fake.”

“I’m sorry. That’s something to live through.”

“You could say that. It’s one of those things that mark your life, as in ‘before the rape’ and ‘after the rape.’ ” She turned her head to the darkening sky and breathed in deeply, her chest lifting. “Just look at those stars. Wherever you are—in London, in LA, in Sierra Leone, in Kabul—the sky is still the sky. At least something is certain, no matter where you are in the world or whether it’s before or after. But I used to be different.”

Sunny was quiet, knowing Isabel had more to say.

And she did. “You know I’m Jewish.”

“When you spoke of your family and the Nazis, I assumed. But what does that matter?”

Isabel shook her head. “I don’t know. Having been raped. And being Jewish, my mother having survived the Holocaust, and then hiding her Judaism her entire life. Not so different from the woman smoking the opium. We Muslims and Jews, we’re
like this.
” And she crossed two fingers. “Very tight.”

Sunny laughed. “You’re my first, you know.”

Isabel raised her brows. “Your first what?”

“You, Isabel Hughes, are my first Jew.”

“Oh my God, and I do mean that quite literally, how can that be?”

“I grew up in
Arkansas
. In a
small town
. There were no Jews there. Then, I came here. There are no Jews here. Well, there’s one.”

“Thanks. Glad to have that moniker. The Only Jew of Kabul.”

“No, funny, I didn’t mean you at all. There is another.”

“There’s
another
? As in
one other
? Meaning, there is
only one
? How did this avoid my brilliant journo radar?”

“Seriously, his family left, everyone from his community left. But he stayed. I’m not sure why. What makes a person stay in a place that’s so threatening, when he’s alone?” She could have been asking that question of herself, of Isabel, of Jack, of Candace. Even of Yazmina. It struck her how they were all the Last Jews of Kabul, outcasts and loners with troubled histories in a war-torn country.

“Who knows? But we all find ways to deal, don’t we. Superb at self-protection.”

“Or denial.”

“Yeah.” Isabel chuckled. “Speaking of which …”

Sunny turned to face Isabel, her face now lit by the moon. It was a lovely, intelligent face. Her friend.

“The rape. It doesn’t define me. At least I make a magnificent attempt not to let it. And it’s not for common knowledge. Just sometimes …”

“I promise. Not a word to anyone. Besides, we are so much more than one thing that happens to us, you know? We’re both living proof of that. You, lady, are so much more.”

“Yeah, I’m your first Jew!” She laughed, her dark hair shining under the moonlight.

Sunny laughed, too, and the two friends went back downstairs to the coffeehouse to drink wine, listen to music, and enjoy the rest of the evening. But the words “before and after” echoed in Sunny’s ears. As she surveyed her coffeehouse and looked at her friend, she thought about the experience that had changed her most. It was obvious: there was already a “before Kabul” for her, and, should she leave, there would forever be “after Kabul.”