Read Online Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul by Deborah Rodriguez - Free Book Online Page B

with a smile on his face.
    â€œSo how long will you be staying on the island?” Sky asked Sunny, the little silver bead hanging in front of his teeth sparkling with every word.
    â€œI wasn’t planning on staying at all.”
    â€œWell you should!” he answered with the enthusiasm of the boy he was. “There’s so much to do. Fishing, hiking, skydiving,kayaking, paddle-boarding …” Sunny’s expression remained frozen as the two men waited for her reaction. “Art galleries, boutiques?” Sky tried. Nothing. “And in the summer, it stays light forever. Like Norway. Hey, and the car show is next week!”
    Joe helped himself to some more wine. “Sky is a one-man Chamber of Commerce. He should run for mayor.”
    â€œHe reminds me a little of someone else,” Sunny said, flashing Joe a subtle smile.
    â€œI’ve lived here all my life,” Sky continued. “Well, practically all my life. My parents moved us up here from Los Angeles when I was little. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. Maybe for a little while for school, but that’s about it.”
    â€œSky is right,” Joe agreed. “It is a beautiful island. Oh, and I almost forgot, we found your other key. The one to the barn.” He nodded at Sky, who dug it out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Sunny. Joe watched as she zipped it into the pocket of her down vest. She reached for the bottle and topped off their glasses. This was good. Tomorrow—tomorrow he’d bring her a warm loaf of bread and a jar of his red sauce.

8
    The vendors were already at work setting up their folding tables in the courtyard as the morning sun climbed its way into the cloudless Kabul sky. On the street, a jumble of vans and carts and taxis and cars were unloading bins and piles of goods, as both men and women approached with heavy bundles over their shoulders, dragging behind them the plastic chairs that would provide some relief throughout the long day of commerce. How the little bazaar had grown since they first started offering weekly space to those whose businesses had been hurt so badly by the restrictions imposed by the international organizations that would no longer allow their people to shop on Chicken Street, designating it as yet one more dangerous place in Kabul that was off-limits. But here, behind the safety of the high walls topped with razor wire, under the watchful eyes of the coffeehouse’s two chokidors , everyone was allowed to shop to their heart’s content, in turn allowing the vendors, along with Ahmetand his family, to bring in a few more dollars to help make ends meet.
    Yazmina greeted the women who appeared with their arms heavy with scarves and jewelry, and helped them arrange the cloths for covering their tables and string the clotheslines that would be used to display their wares. “ Salaam alaikum ,” she repeated to each of them, after the customary three kisses on their cheeks. “How are you? How is your health? How is your family?”
    Bashir Hadi was busy setting up his own table, where the coffeehouse favorites that Sunny had taught him to make—brownies, peanut-butter-and-chocolate-chip cookies, date bars—would sell like hot cakes. He hoped they would go particularly fast today, he had told them this morning, as he was anxious to get home to where his wife, Sharifa, was working all day to prepare the special dish of mantu for the family. He could practically feel the little pockets of ground beef exploding in his mouth already, the mint and garlic sweet and tangy on the tip of his tongue.
    Ahmet stopped briefly to check in with Daoud, who was standing tall and firm by the coffeehouse gate, his eyes continuously scanning the busy courtyard like a beacon at sea. After the chokidor assured him that everything was running smoothly, Ahmet slicked back his hair and began his weekly rounds, sharing his own greetings with the eager men