By Deborah Rodriguez
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Additional resources for A Cup of Friendship
Her first year in Kabul, Sunny instituted a couple of new traditions in the coffeehouse. One was Christmas, when she decorated with a big plastic tree and decorations from Chicken Street, and the other was Easter, which the coffeehouse celebrated as a welcome to spring, when Sunny opened the outdoor patio and created a Shangri-la of hyacinth and fuchsia that climbed the open-walled tents she’d brought back from Dubai. Christmas was around the corner; Easter was in just a few months. “We’ll make that our goal.
Layla ran away, back to the cooking room. ” she called. Yazmina knew she was getting water to throw at the car, a tradition to ensure that the person leaving would return one day. But Yazmina knew she would never be back, so she squared her shoulders, forced her eyes straight ahead, and sat tall as the old man got into the front seat with the driver and the young one got in next to her and closed the door. The SUV pulled away in a cloud of dust. By the time Layla got back with the water to throw at the car, it was already gone, a black speck on the road leading far down the hill.
And how is your sister in Germany? And every other living relative? Then she inquired about their states of health. In Kabul, it would be rude to do otherwise. Ahmet was a serious traditionalist, and following the rules—both unspoken and in the Koran—was important to him. He had earned her respect. He’d kept her and her customers safe more times than she could count. He asked her the same questions and a few minutes later she was free to leave. She looked up and down the pedestrian-filled street and in front of every other business was a man dressed just like Ahmet, with dark glasses, black shirt, and black pants.