Saving Kabul Corner Read online

  Ariana looked out the window and saw Mr. ­Martinez come out of his restaurant to whisper with Mrs. Smith. The Milans had also wandered outside to see what the ruckus was about. Ariana glanced at Wali and froze when his heated gaze fell on her. She clenched the broom in her hand and jerked her eyes away.

  Gulbadin threw the flyer on the ground and spat on it. “That is what I think of your honor,” he said, shaking his finger at Jamil. “This is defamation. I will have Lucinda throw you out. . . . I . . . I will sue you!”

  “Go ahead, you fool!” shouted Jamil, and he slammed the door in Gulbadin’s face. Then he stood there, shocked at his own behavior.

  Ariana stood trembling, and exchanged a horrified look with Zayd.

  “Oh, man,” whispered Zayd.

  They’d never seen their father lose his temper like that before. Ariana reached over to grab Zayd’s hand as he stared out the window. They saw the crowd of onlookers watching Gulbadin and Wali storming back to Pamir Market, ripping off flyers as they went.

  “It’ll be okay,” whispered Zayd. “Dad will figure out what the heck is going on.” Ariana nodded, and they returned to work.

  Fifteen minutes later Uncle Shams arrived, his sky-blue minivan screeching to a halt in front of the store. Just as Jamil finished explaining what had happened, Lucinda Wong arrived, her iron-gray hair windblown, lines of worry marring her forehead. Like two naughty schoolboys, Jamil and Shams stood beside the register while Lucinda waved her finger at them, holding a copy of the flyer.

  “Jamil, Shams, what is going on? I just got a call from Gulbadin, and he was so angry, he could barely get a word out. He’s threatening to sue everyone!”

  “We don’t know where the flyers came from,” said Shams.

  “They were here before we arrived this morning,” added Jamil.

  “These are very serious accusations Gulbadin is leveling against you,” said Lucinda, wringing her hands. “I don’t know what to make of it. I know you were very upset when I gave Gulbadin a lease to open a similar store—”

  “We were unhappy, but we would never do anything like this,” interjected Jamil.

  “Well, it looks bad,” said Lucinda, pacing the checkered linoleum floor. “If you look at the facts, you’re the only ones who’d benefit from the allegations on the flyer.”

  “But we didn’t do this,” said Shams, bristling at the accusation. Jamil squeezed his arm, trying to calm him down.

  Lucinda sighed and gave them a sad look. “I’ve known you boys for more than a decade, and you’ve been excellent tenants. You’ve never caused any problems, and always paid me on time.”

  “We swear on our honor,” said Jamil. “We had nothing to do with these flyers, regardless of how upset we were about the new store.”

  “I should have installed security cameras years ago,” grumbled Lucinda, throwing up her hands. “That way we would have video footage of who posted the flyers. But during these lean financial times, I can’t afford to.”

  Or afford a new coat of paint and other fixes around the plaza either, thought Ariana, hidden behind the spice rack.

  “Since there is no proof of who did this, I will let you go with a warning,” said Lucinda, “but I don’t want any more trouble.”

  • • •

  Ariana stopped scrubbing her hair in the soothing warm water when she heard someone enter her parents’ bedroom. She’d snuck into the master bathroom to soak in the tub, since the twins were hogging the one in the hallway.

  “We may have to forfeit our deposit on the new house, Nasreen jaan,” came her father’s subdued voice.

  Ariana froze, sensing that the word “forfeit” meant trouble.

  “What do you mean, Jamil?” responded Nasreen, her voice confused.

  Her father sighed and paused for a moment. “With all the trouble at the store, we don’t have a steady source of income to pay for a mortgage. We have to face the reality that Haroon is gone for good and all those customers who came to get their bread from us now go to Pamir Market.”

  “But the situation is temporary, right?” asked ­Nasreen. “Business should pick up once you find another baker.”

  “Shams and I have been looking,” said Jamil. “But we can’t find a replacement who’s as good, or reliable. So far this has been the worst month of business we’ve had since we opened. We barely covered the cost of running the store—the electricity, water, and inventory.”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Nasreen, her voice weak.

  Ariana slumped against the smooth porcelain, her dream of her own room popping like a watermelon-scented bubble.

  “It’s okay, Jamil,” said Nasreen. “Of course I’m disappointed, and the kids will be too, especially Ariana. But if this is what Allah wills, then so be it. ­Insha’Allah things will turn around at the store.”

  “I hope so too,” said Jamil. “We won’t make a decision yet. Let’s just see how things go.”

  Shock settled over Ariana’s skin like a layer of numbing ice. I really need to stop listening to other people’s conversations, she thought. All I hear is bad news. She heard the floor creak, and hoped neither of her parents tried to open the bathroom door. But heck, it wasn’t as if she’d been eavesdropping on purpose. I’m only trying to take a bath, for heaven’s sake! But she didn’t have to worry, since her parents left. Deflated by the news, she slowly dried off, slipped on her soft seamless flannel pajamas, and headed downstairs.

  On her way through the foyer, she spotted a vivid splash of yellow. It was the flyer her father had taken from the store door. She grabbed it from the hall table with shaking fingers and slunk into the garage. The calendar with its bright red Xs hung in the corner as Charlie Brown and Snoopy held hands while doing a happy dance. The glee on their little cartoon faces sent a burst of anger through her heart. How can they be so happy when I’m miserable? Overcome with a mixture of anger and grief, she wanted to rip it from the wall, but she clenched her fist, holding back the urge. I’m not going to give up hope. She grabbed the red marker and drew a bold red X on today’s date. She also drew a big mustache across Charlie Brown’s upper lip, then turned her back on him.

  Feeling a bit better, she flipped on the table lamp and sat down, smoothing out the bright yellow flyer on the desk. She wanted to think of something, ­anything, that didn’t remind her of the awful news her parents had inadvertently shared with her. She stared down at the ugly message on the page. Ironically, the paper the message was written on was beautiful—heavyweight, in a rich shade of sunflower yellow, one of Ariana’s favorites. She would have loved to get a paint swatch to match it for her new room . . . a room she probably wasn’t going to get now. Tears welled up in her eyes, and then she got angry at herself. I’m not going to let stupid Wali and his family make me cry.

  She dried her tears and smoothed out the paper’s textured surface. She pulled out her magnifying glass and saw that it was well made, which was odd. Usually mass-produced flyers used cheap copy paper, like her father’s flyers, some of which were still stacked on the desk. She tore part of the yellow flyer and saw that it frayed ever so slightly, which meant that it was made of more expensive cotton pulp. This was no cheap stock paper. It was sturdy, great for origami. As she ran her finger along the surface, the tip of her finger became stained with a hint of ink. She rubbed her father’s flyer, and its ink stayed true. Who would go to so much trouble to use good quality paper for a mass-produced flyer? The ink is different too. What a waste of money.

  She knew that her father and uncle hadn’t had anything to do with the mystery meat flyers. But could it really be the Ghilzais? Gulbadin could have had these printed up to accuse the Shinwaris of harassment, but that just didn’t make any sense, especially since an accusation like this could damage Pamir Market’s reputation. If customers really believed that the Ghilzais were selling horse meat as beef, everyone would be grossed o
ut and wouldn’t step foot into their store. She reread the section in English and found no clues as to who could be behind the flyer. She traced her fingers along the curved Farsi script, but despite all her mother’s efforts to teach her, she couldn’t read it. Maybe Hava Bibi could translate it for her. But no, her grandmother was at Uncle Shams’s town house next door. That left her parents, whom she didn’t want to bother. So that left one other person in the house who could read it.

  • • •

  A frown marred Laila’s usually smooth brow as she contemplated the Farsi script. Ariana sat next to her, tapping her foot impatiently as her cousin carefully reread the words over and over again, checking her Farsi-to-English dictionary.

  “This is really badly written,” said Laila, turning to Ariana. “It’s a literal translation—as if someone took an English-to-Farsi dictionary and just transcribed it, word by word, from English to Farsi. The grammar is really poor, and it sounds funny.”

  “So whoever wrote it doesn’t know Farsi that well?” Ariana pondered as Laila nodded. “But Gulbadin and his family are fluent in Farsi,” said Ariana.

  Laila nodded, confusion marring her features. “I don’t know why they would create such a badly written flyer, especially since it would hurt their business.”

  Ariana frowned. It made no sense. No sense at all. “There’s something fishy going on here.”

  “Fishy?” repeated Laila.

  Ariana laughed. “It’s an Americanism. It means that something suspicious is going on—something doesn’t smell right.”

  “Oh. This is definitely fishy,” said Laila, looking at the flyer, her bright aquamarine eyes serious.

  “Thank you, Laila,” said Ariana, “for helping me with this.”

  “Why would you thank me?” said Laila, frowning. “We are family—we help each other, no matter what.”

  Ariana gazed into Laila’s face and found sincerity, along with a quizzical smile. It seemed like the envy and bitter feelings they’d held against each other were now a slowly fading memory. She returned Laila’s smile, though her heart felt heavy. Something about the flyer just didn’t feel right.

  EIGHT SLEEPY KIDS, ALONG with Uncle Shams, squeezed into the minivan and headed toward Lake Elizabeth Park for the annual Festival of the Arts. Ariana sat in the third row, pressed against the window; she’d made sure not to get stuck in the middle of the boys. Laila was at the other end, watching Marjan drool in his sleep. She and Ariana shared a grin and settled in for the ride. Ariana sleepily rested her face against the cold glass, watching the sun inch up from beyond the hills. She spotted her mother and Sara Khala’s crimson polka dot dress in the rearview mirror, following behind in the truck, which was packed with supplies. Her father was at the store, since it was open for business on Sunday. After the appearance of the flyers accusing Pamir Market of selling horse meat, business at Kabul Corner had picked up. But she didn’t know if it was enough . . . enough for the new house. And she didn’t dare bring up the topic with her parents, since they hadn’t told the kids anything about forfeiting their deposit.

  For the past six years Kabul Corner had had a booth at the festival—a mini stop for all things Afghan—pickles, jams, cookies, and a line of Afghan handcrafts made by women widowed during the country’s many wars. Nasreen and Sara Khala had started a nonprofit business to help these women by selling their beautiful beaded handbags, embroidered shoes, and silver jewelry in America, then sending the money back to them.

  Uncle Shams was lucky enough to find a parking spot close to the same booth they reserved every year, and Nasreen and Sara Khala pulled into the spot next to them. The kids tumbled out of the minivan, like sardines exiting a tin can.

  “Ah, here we are again,” said Uncle Shams, taking a swig from his thermos of sweet tea.

  Yes, indeed, thought Ariana grumpily, peering down the street, which was shut down, allowing vendors to prepare their stalls. Here we are again. She eyed the line of booths, numbering close to seven hundred, wishing she were back in bed, snuggled beneath her soft quilt, listening to a snoring Hava Bibi.

  “Okay, guys,” said Uncle Shams, rubbing his hands against the morning chill. “Get the tables out of the truck and start unloading.”

  Zayd opened the truck doors, and the twins, wearing matching red woolen caps, climbed inside. Jointly carrying a foldable table, Ariana and Laila trekked over to booth 412, near one of the three entertainment stages, conveniently across from the food ­pavilion. The heavenly scent of frying funnel cakes, hot dogs, and cotton candy had begun to waft through the air. Ariana’s stomach rumbled. Her brothers had finished the last of the cereal that morning, and there was no way she was going to touch a fried egg. A hot dog slathered with mustard sure sounded good right now. In addition to the usual fair food, many local restaurants and food trucks served their specialties—Thai noodles, falafel pitas, spicy tandoori chicken, and tacos brimming with shredded beef.

  “No dawdling!” barked Uncle Shams as Baz and Marjan hauled boxes. “Okay, my beloved,” he said to his wife. “I need to talk to my buddies on the organization committee.”

  “All right, jaan,” said Sara Khala, spreading out the red tablecloths.

  “Call me if you need me,” said Uncle Shams, and he disappeared into the crowd.

  Even though sales had picked up after the appearance of the mystery meat flyers, Ariana knew that her father and uncle were still brainstorming about how to bring in more customers. So Uncle Shams’s goal at the festival was to do as much marketing as possible to drum up business. We’re fighting extinction, she thought glumly. It’s the survival of the fittest. In quiet companionship, she and Laila unpacked boxes, arranged packets of nuts, and stacked jars of honey in neat pyramids while watching the blues band onstage tune their instruments. Nasreen handed Ariana the wax earplugs she usually wore so that the music didn’t bother her too much during the long day. The festival officially opened at ten, and they had just a couple of hours to set up.

  Ariana laid out the hand-stitched purses, her mind wandering back to the flyers about Pamir Market. She and Laila had talked about it a lot over the past few days, and the more they discussed it, the more certain they felt that the Ghilzais couldn’t possibly be behind them; it just didn’t make sense to try to discredit their own store. But if it wasn’t them, who was it? she thought, perplexed. They’d wanted to talk to Ariana’s father about it, but whenever they’d seen him, his lips had been tight with worry about shrinking revenues, and they’d kept silent. They had no proof that the Ghilzais hadn’t distributed the flyers, and they didn’t have an alternative culprit who could be responsible. With a deep sigh Ariana tugged open another box of scarves, preparing for a long day ahead.

  • • •

  “I’m so tired, I could pass out,” whined Omar as Baz collapsed on the grass, earning a dark look from Zayd.

  Ariana agreed and passed her water bottle over to Hasan, who gave her a grateful smile. They’d been standing at the booth for hours, and she was tired of smiling and trying to explain the knot count on the half dozen handwoven carpets they had on display. Basically, the greater the number of knots that made up a rug, the better the quality. You had to flip a corner of the rug over to show interested customers the intricate rows of knots. Most people thought it was amazing that a girl her age knew this, but hey, she was Afghan. Most Afghans had dozens of carpets in their house, and kids grew up knowing good quality from bad, especially her, since her sensitive fingers could detect the quality of wool from its texture within seconds.

  Somewhere in the next row Ariana could hear Uncle Shams talking to the other vendors, picking up news, talking about Kabul Corner’s new line of frozen foods. His voice grew louder as he came closer, and Ariana saw that he was with an elegant older woman dressed in a neat black suit and turquoise blouse. She stood out from the casually attired crowd, especially since she was trailed by a group of equally well
-dressed assistants, shaking hands, passing out leaflets.

  “This is our booth,” said Uncle Shams, smiling widely. He introduced her to Nasreen and Sara Khala. “This is Ana Cardoso. She’s a retired pediatrician from the school education board. She’s running for mayor.”

  “Of course,” said Nasreen, grabbing a leaflet and sticking it into the money box. “We’ve been following the race very closely.

  Really? thought Ariana. She’d never seen her mother pay attention to local politics, though Nasreen voted during presidential elections and watched international news closely. Maybe this is what adults call white lies.

  “It’s a very close race, so we need your vote,” said Ana, shaking their hands.

  “We’re very concerned about the funding cuts at the school,” said Sara Khala, who was forever complaining about the standards dropping.

  Ariana nodded. Because of California’s state budget cuts, school funding had been sharply reduced. At Brookhaven they’d nearly lost their art class, while physical education and band had been reduced to twice a week. Not that she played any instruments, but Mariam did—the trombone.

  “We’re all concerned, and education is my number one priority,” said Ana with a sad shake of her head.

  “Good,” said Sara Khala and Nasreen together.

  “As a mother of two girls, I know the importance of education and the access to quality health care,” said Ana. “The Fremont police and fire departments have endorsed me, since I’ve worked with them to improve safety and reduce crime. The other candidates aren’t as focused on these things.” She angled her head back, and Ariana followed her gaze. At the far end of the street was another group visiting booths and shaking hands.

  Aaah, the other candidate for mayor, thought Ariana, squinting her eyes to catch a glimpse of who it was.

  “Well, it was lovely to meet you,” said Ana, moving on with her entourage. “Don’t forget to vote on the first Tuesday of November.”