Saving Kabul Corner Page 2

  After she’d seen the sign for the new store that morning, Ariana had run back to Kabul Corner, splashing lattes along the way. As soon as she’d told them about the sign, the men had headed over to see the sign for themselves, with Ariana leading the way.

  “What the heck?” muttered Uncle Shams, reading the sign.

  “This must be some sort of mistake,” said Jamil, peering through the window.

  “Why would Lucinda do this?” asked Uncle Shams, his cheeks poofing out.

  Jamil stepped back. “We need to figure out what’s going on before we get all worked up.” He turned to Ariana. “Thank you for showing us this, jaan, but you need to promise you’ll keep quiet about this till your uncle and I know what’s going on.”

  Ariana nodded. She was a little frightened by the sense of apprehension that settled over the men as they walked back to Kabul Corner.

  She now watched her father run his hand through his thick, wavy hair as he spoke into the phone; his voice was polite but tense. “But, Lucinda, I don’t understand how you could rent the building to another Afghan grocery store. They are in the same business as us.”

  Jamil listened to Lucinda’s response, which went on for a good few minutes. Uncle Shams stood beside him, his eyebrows knitted over stormy eyes, arms clasped over his chest.

  “Yes, yes, I know that you need to make the best financial decision, especially during these tough economic times—” He paused with a grimace.

  “No, you’ve been a wonderful landlord—” He stopped, interrupted again.

  “Of course you need to do what’s best—”

  “Yes, well, we are very happy with our location and our lease, but this will be a tremendous challenge for our business—”

  “Thank you for your time. . . . Yes, I’ll drop by to see you tomorrow. And I hope your son is doing better.” With that he hung up the phone.

  A loud thump sounded above, and Uncle Shams grabbed the broom and rapped it against the ceiling. “Quiet down, kids!” he yelled, and things stilled, at least momentarily. “What did she say?” he asked.

  “She’s under great financial pressure, especially after Hooper’s Diner closed right after the sewing machine repair shop went under. With no rent coming in, she’s strapped for cash.”

  “This is not good,” moaned Uncle Shams, rubbing his temples. “This is not good!”

  “These Pamir Market people are giving her good rent, which she needs. So it’s a business decision, nothing personal.”

  “Personal, my foot,” grumbled Uncle Shams, pacing the kitchen. “All the hard work we’ve put into Kabul Corner could be ruined!”

  Ariana’s heart leapt to her throat, and she swallowed hard.

  “Now, Shams,” said her father. “Don’t get worked up. We don’t know all the facts.”

  “Facts?” said Shams, sweat beading along his brow. “What other facts do we need? There is a competing store opening at the opposite end of Wong Plaza, and it could drive us out of business!”

  Kabul Corner close? Ariana gasped. She couldn’t help it.

  Silence descended over the kitchen, and the next few seconds passed with excruciating slowness.

  “Ariana, come here,” came her father’s weary voice.

  Darn, she thought, slinking into the kitchen, her head bowed. I’m going to get it.

  “Eavesdropping is not polite, jaan,” scolded her father with a look of irritation.

  “You’re not a little kid anymore,” added Uncle Shams, wagging his pudgy finger. “You are a young lady and must behave like one. You don’t see Laila hiding, listening to conversations she’s not supposed to, do you?”

  Ariana’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and she shook her head. Why does perfect Laila have to be dragged into this?

  “Ariana jaan, your uncle Shams is right,” added her father, making her feel worse. “You’re growing up and need to behave properly.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ariana. “I only wanted to know what was going on. . . . I was worried.”

  “No need to worry about things that don’t concern you,” grumbled Uncle Shams.

  “Your uncle is right,” said her father. “I don’t want the rest of the family getting worried unnecessarily. Do you understand?”

  Ariana nodded. “Yes, Father.”

  Dejected, Ariana exited the kitchen, the secret a heavy stone tied across her shoulders. She was tempted to tell someone, anyone, to share the burden, but she knew she couldn’t. Her first instinct was to retreat and hide in her room to finish her latest origami project, a miniature zoo. Just thinking about making tiny folds in a soft piece of paper, watching a 3-D figure emerge from a flat page, soothed her nerves. Ever since Ms. Marshall, her second-grade teacher, had taught her class the ancient Japanese art of ori, meaning “to fold,” and kami, “paper,” she’d been hooked. She’d already finished the lion, tiger, and bear and needed to work on the elephant next.

  As she reached the foot of the stairs, she heard the boys racing through the hall, roughhousing like a troop of baboons.

  Omar paused at the top of the steps, his face sweaty. “Hey, Ari,” he said, and grinned. “Wanna help us with target practice?”

  Ariana gave him a look. As if.

  “We need someone to stand with an apple on their head,” pleaded chubby, freckle-faced Baz, Uncle Shams’s eldest son, a year older than the twins.

  “No way,” she grumbled, and they took off with a disappointed shrug.

  Then she remembered that her prized stack of paper wasn’t even in her room anymore. She’d had to move it to the garage, since there wasn’t enough room for her, Hava Bibi, Laila, and all of their things in the cramped bedroom. Laila’s underwear and socks now occupied half the second drawer of the dresser, and the closet was now overflowing with the addition of Laila’s parthuk kameezes and new American clothes. The corner that had once held Ariana’s art supplies was stacked with suitcases. Even her bed was no longer hers. Since Laila was a guest, Ariana slept on the floor, cocooned in a flannel duvet that didn’t irritate her skin.

  The sound of laughter echoed from the front of the house, breaking into her morose thoughts. What’s so funny? she thought, wandering over to the living room. Hava Bibi, a white scarf framing her still youthful face, leaned against yellow embroidered cushions, telling a story in rapid-fire Pukhto as the others sat around her. Ariana stood at the door and watched Sara Khala, Uncle Shams’s wife, laugh so hard that tears streamed down her round cheeks.

  “Can you believe it?” asked Hava Bibi, a twinkle in her eye. “The man was so embarrassed by what he’d done, he was never seen in the village again. His ghayrat was gone.”

  Ariana frowned. Whose ghayrat was gone? Even though she understood most of what they were saying, she couldn’t speak Pukhto very well, and the elders often joked that her accent was terrible. Sometimes, when she didn’t understand a word or phrase, they had to translate it for her. Still, she knew that “ghayrat” meant “sense of dignity,” so whatever had happened must have been pretty bad.

  “Where did he go?” asked Laila with barely suppressed excitement. Perched near Hava Bibi’s feet, she passed her grandmother some sugared almonds to go with her green tea.

  “Some say he went to Kabul and opened a carpet store on Chicken Street.”

  “Oh, I think I know that store,” said Laila, her eyes bright. “Remember, Mother? Our tailor was there, and we used to get lablabu from the corner stall.”

  Zainab Khala, Laila’s mother, nodded with a smile.

  “Lablabu? What’s that?” asked Ariana as she wandered in and sat next to her mother.

  “They’re sugared beets,” said Ariana’s mother, ­Nasreen. “I loved eating them when I was little. They come in all sorts of colors and taste better than candy.”

  Sugared beets? I don’t think so. Ariana shuddered. She glanced ove
r at her elegantly dressed mother, with her chic haircut and tasteful choice of mauve lipstick. She couldn’t imagine her standing on a dusty, noisy street eating from a dirty plate. Her mother was very particular about germs and scrubbed the kitchen counters twice a day.

  “After Mother finished up her grocery shopping on Flower Street, if we had time, we’d go and get ice cream in Shahrenaw Park,” said Laila, turning her back toward Ariana.

  “Unfortunately, we couldn’t go out that much anymore,” said Zainab Khala. “It’s just too dangerous.”

  “But if you let me, I’d spend hours at the Ka Farushi bird market,” Laila said, smiling.

  “Is that old place still around?” asked Hava Bibi.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Laila. “Father bought me a pair of songbirds there last year. They’re just beautiful.” She paused a moment with a frown. “I had to give them to Saima, my best friend, before we left.”

  “I’m sure Saima is taking great care of them,” said Hava Bibi, patting Laila on the shoulder.

  “Kabul has grown by leaps and bounds,” said Zainab Khala, “war or no war. And the markets are filled with every kind of black market good you can think of—televisions, DVD players, silks, and fine china plates. But the poorest of the poor can barely afford bread.”

  The others sadly nodded while Ariana sat curled up against a cushion, feeling left out. They’d all lived in Kabul and had memories of their life there. She picked at the line of stitching across the toe of her old sock, hating the feel of it bunched up against her skin. Although her mother tried hard to find seamless clothes for her, including socks and underwear, sometimes it was not possible.

  “Life was different in Afghanistan,” said Hava Bibi with a sad smile. “It was a hard life, but also filled with fun times.”

  Zainab Khala and Laila exchanged a pensive glance. Catching their despondent look, Hava Bibi launched into another story. “Did I ever tell you the story about the feud?”

  Hearing the word “feud,” Ariana perked up. Now, this sounds interesting.

  “No, Hava Bibi. Please tell us,” urged Laila.

  “Well, it’s a story from our old village in the province Kunar, where our family originally comes from. It’s quite beautiful—a lush, green valley nestled among the Hindu Kush Mountains. A wide river, shimmering like turquoise, runs through the middle, carrying the icy waters from the glaciers above.”

  “I’ve never been to Kunar but always wanted to go,” said Laila.

  “It isn’t safe to travel there these days,” said her mother in a subdued voice. “It’s been overrun by the Taliban.”

  “I was nearly fifteen and had finished up my studies at the local school,” continued Hava Bibi. “That’s when the incident with the old goat occurred.”

  “A goat?” squeaked Ariana. She got a warning look from her mother not to interrupt.

  But Laila keeps interrupting, Ariana thought, and bristled.

  “Yes, jaan, a goat,” said Hava Bibi, tweaking Ariana’s nose. Ariana smiled; she and her grandmother were very close, especially since her grandfather, Masood Baba, had passed away four years before.

  “Well, my father, Zia, owned a goat that had wandered onto our neighbor’s land to eat some new spring grass. Now, my father was known in the village as a tough, ornery old man, and when the goat didn’t return, he accused the neighbor, Bawer, of stealing it. Insulted that his nang, or honor, would be questioned in such a way, Bawer refused to return the mangy old goat. My father was infuriated and wanted badal, revenge. So in the middle of the night, he and my three brothers recaptured the goat, and in the process, to redeem their nang, they took Bawer’s prized white stallion, the fastest in the valley.”

  “All that trouble for a goat?” said Ariana, her eyebrows arched.

  “If the men had not been so hotheaded, the incident should have ended right there,” said Hava Bibi. “Bawer’s daughter, Dilshad, was my good friend at school, and before the feud began, our mothers often visited each other, exchanging melons and pomegranates from their orchards,” she added with a melancholy look.

  “So what happened?” Ariana asked with impatience.

  “Yes, well, my father was known as—how do you kids say in American—‘a real tough cookie.’”

  Ariana giggled as her mother explained the saying to Laila and her mother.

  “My father ruled the village with an iron fist, and after he took the stallion, things escalated. It was rumored that Bawer’s eldest son burned down my father’s apple orchard. Then my father retaliated by filling their well with sand. It went on like this for many years, leading eventually to my father shooting Bawer’s son Tofan as he climbed over the mud boundary wall that separated our houses.”

  “He shot him?” Ariana said in a horrified whisper.

  “Yes.” Hava Bibi sighed, a look of disapproval on her elegant features. “It was stubbornness on both sides, really; Father spotted Tofan at the top of the wall and shouted to Bawer that if his son didn’t get down, he would shoot. Bawer had told his son to climb the wall, so his nang was at stake. Tofan was an obedient Pukhtun son and would never question his father, so he stayed. Because Zia had given his word that he would shoot, he was stuck.”

  “His word? Are you kidding?” mumbled Ariana.

  Laila gave her an incredulous look. “Ariana, giving your word is a big deal to Pukhtuns. In Pukhtunwali you are judged by your words and actions.”

  Ariana gave Laila a stony look. “I’m not stupid, okay?”

  “Ariana,” said her mother with a note of warning in her voice.

  As Laila shifted her gaze, Ariana couldn’t help but think that the only time Laila talked to her was to show off and make her look like an idiot.

  “Don’t be silly, Ariana jaan,” said Hava Bibi. “You are not stupid. You just don’t know about Afghan culture as much as Laila does. A Pukhtun man’s worth is tied to his word. So my father, using a rusty old rifle left over by the British when they failed to conquer the Afghans, pulled the trigger.”

  “Did he die?” asked Laila’s mother in a soft whisper.

  “Thankfully, he did not,” said Hava Bibi, a sad, wistful look on her face. “Tofan was hit in the leg and he fell. Dilshad and I stopped speaking after that, though I heard that Tofan went on to become a professor of literature at Kabul University.”

  “It’s kind of like the Hatfields and McCoys,” said Ariana, remembering what they’d learned in American history the year before.

  “The who and who?” asked Hava Bibi.

  “The Hatfields and McCoys were two families in West Virginia in the 1880s,” explained Ariana. “A Hatfield shot and killed a McCoy, which started a family feud over honor that went on for decades.”

  “Yes, very similar,” said Hava Bibi, her lips pressed in disapproval. Reliving the past had gotten her visibly upset. “Do you see how a small thing such as an argument over a goat can lead to something so terrible? If my father and Bawer had just met and talked things through, the families would still be friends.”

  “So how did it end?” asked Ariana.

  “Fate had other plans,” said Hava Bibi. “The feud simmered on and off for many years until the Soviets bombed our village after they invaded Afghanistan in 1979. Then both families scattered. I fled with my brothers, cousins, husband, and sons to neighboring Pakistan.”

  Ariana knew that her grandparents had eventually left Pakistan and ended up here, in Fremont, California, where many Afghans settled as refugees. Ariana’s father, Jamil had been fourteen and Uncle Shams had been eleven when they’d arrived.

  “Okay, kids, enough old stories,” interrupted Nasreen. “School starts tomorrow, and we’ve got to get the rest of your school supplies.”

  Ariana reluctantly got up along with the others. While everyone else exited the living room, her mother pulled her aside.

  “Ariana,�
� said her mother, her face stern. “You were very rude to Laila, and that is not acceptable. She’s your cousin, and our guest. You must be nice to her and make her feel welcome.”

  Reluctantly, Ariana nodded and trudged back to the garage to grab her school shopping list. The garage, her father’s office, was overflowing with stuff related to the store. Cracking open the door, she glimpsed her father hunkered over his desk, poring over the store’s ledgers and taking notes. Watching his worried face in the shadow cast by the lamp, Ariana felt her annoyance with Laila and her mother fizzle, replaced with a feeling of dread. Deep in her gut, she knew that the new store opening at the opposite end of the plaza was bad news.

  BACK STRAIGHT, GAME FACE ON, Ariana pushed through the double doors of Brookhaven Middle School. One step behind was Laila, dressed in jeans she’d ironed that morning at six a.m., and a long, turquoise kameez she’d worn when she’d first arrived in San Francisco. After getting ready, as Ariana had dragged herself out of bed, Laila had helped Hava Bibi make breakfast, gaining praise for flipping a perfect pancake. She’d even added mini chocolate chips for the twins, earning her a rare hug from Omar.

  Pretending her cousin wasn’t there, Ariana halted under the cheerful green and white banner welcoming everyone back to school. Where’s Mariam? I’m going to kill her if she’s late. They’d promised to meet in the lobby then check bulletin boards to see their homeroom assignment so they could officially begin the sixth grade together. Over the summer they’d attended middle school orientation and received a map of the school, along with instruction on what to expect this year.

  “There are so many people,” whispered Laila, her face pale.

  Ariana nodded, still irritated by Laila’s kissing up to her annoying brothers. But her mother’s voice reverberated in the back of her head. Keep an eye on Laila. She’s new, and I’m sure things will be a little scary for her. “Yeah,” replied Ariana, feeling a little overwhelmed too. “There are more than six hundred students here.”