Read Online A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez - Free Book Online Page B

Chinese Embassy, with its high walls, where beggar children approached the car, their arms outstretched. Women sat on the edge of the road begging near the open sewers, holding their babies in their laps. Here the traffic was at a standstill as it always was, the exhaust fumes were inescapable, and makeshift shops, selling the used clothing donated to Kabul out of pushcarts and hanging on barbed-wire fences, lined the streets.
    Ahmet didn’t have to wait long to hear his mother’s rant, the same words she said every time.
    “In the days of the king, you’d never see this. Kabul is not a beggar’s city. This is because of years of war and displaced people with no homes, no way to make a living. And it’s because of the Talib. Their violence has created an entire city of people under the city.” She frowned. “Afghanistan is not India! And this is not my Kabul.”
    “Mother, your Kabul has been gone for a long time.” He knew she was right. But if it were him, he’d rather die of starvation than beg in a ditch on the side of the road.
    Traffic was slow and dense, but eventually they could see the beginning of the Mondai-e ahead, where it began on this side of the Kabul River. But you had to cross the river, over the bridge, to really get to the center of the bazaar.
    He could feel his mother getting anxious, as if she couldn’t sit another minute.
    “Hurry up, Ahmet! Is there no other way? I have an errand. And it’s looking like the heavens might open at any minute.”
    “We’re almost there, Mother,” he answered as patiently as he could. But there was so much traffic that he knew they’d be sitting there for at least another ten minutes.
    Then his mother said, “We’re getting out. We will be faster on foot.”
    “You will wait until we get there,” he insisted. “It isn’t safe.”
    “Come, Yazmina. Let’s go. Ahmet, we’ll meet you at the bridge.”
    Ahmet threw up his hands. He could do nothing to prevent his stubborn mother from getting out of the car with Yazmina and then walking away into the crowded street.
    He got through the roundabout, parked as quickly as he could, paid a teenage boy to watch the car, and ran to catch up to them, but they were already out of sight. The sky had blackened and rain was imminent.
    Walking toward the river, Yazmina felt her heart beat faster. Her legs felt as though they’d gained length and strength with each stride. But she knew the rules even under the burqa: Keep your head down and your eyes to yourself. It was unacceptable to look at a man straight on or to laugh aloud or to smile at a small child or to gaze longingly at a dress in the market. In the country, she was freer to be herself, to show her feelings, but there had been no place to go with them. All she had, after her Najam died, was her uncle’s house, the hills, farm, and barn, and perhaps the local market when the traders came through. Here she had people of all colors and clothing, people from all parts of the world, an entire city of changing faces. And yet she couldn’t allow herself to show her excitement.
    They walked briskly, keeping their eyes to the ground, moving faster than the cars that were being stopped at the corner by police. She had seen this many times since coming to Kabul. Police in full uniform, rifles drawn, standing at intersections and bending over into car windows, searching the backseats and the fronts, and sometimes the trunks. She had no idea what they were looking for, and she hoped they didn’t find it while she was there.
    It had begun to rain by the time they arrived but it didn’t matter. Yazmina couldn’t stop herself from looking fully, head up, eyes wide, a rush of blood to her cheeks. Everything looked marvelous. But it was the dresses, the shalwaar kameez es, and the chaderi that she was after. She checked her pocket to be sure the money that Sunny had given her was still there.
    Suddenly, Halajan turned to her and said anxiously, “I have some