even tell people about it. That would help.”
At 8:10, Sunny’s cellphone rang. The landlines in Kabul were about as trustworthy as the rug dealer in the market. If the wind blew too hard, if it rained, if a little bird landed on a wire, the line went dead.
Sunny answered the call, but nobody was there. So she told Ahmet to let his friend at the gate leave. Ahmet resumed his usual place outside.
At 8:22, Jack walked in, a large canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. He looked around the room and raised his brows. He laid the bag gingerly on a table.
“Nice crowd,” he said.
Sunny couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “At least you decided to show up.”
“Honey, I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. “Hello, Halajan,” he said, and then said something in his perfect Dari that made Halajan laugh.
Sunny didn’t know precisely what he’d said, but it was somewhere in the vicinity of Sunny having scared everyone off. Jack sat. And Sunny said, “Very funny.” She joined Jack, and Yazmina served them each a Coke, then retreated behind the counter to the kitchen.
But Jack dug into his bag and pulled out a bottle of wine.
“Let’s get this party started,” he said. “Got any movies?”
“She’s got them,” said Bashir Hadi from the counter. “Miss Sunny took the car out today.”
Sunny glared at Bashir Hadi and then looked at Jack, who was shaking his head unhappily. As if she were a teenager.
“I’ll deal with that,” offered Halajan. She took the bottle to the kitchen and returned with a teapot and three cups. She poured.
“Nice tea,” Jack said. “Good vintage. Let’s toast.”
“To busy nights,” Sunny said.
“To safe driving,” he answered.
At that moment, the door slammed open and two Afghan men, twenty-one, maybe twenty-two years old, walked in and, instead of waiting to be seated properly, sat themselves at a table. They were clearly Pashtun, dressed nicely, of some privilege. What was also clear is that they were high on hashish or something, which made them loud, arrogant, and demanding.
“Hey, two beers over here!” one yelled in his native language, slamming his hand on the table. The other laughed, tilting his chair back.
Sunny’s hackles rose and she looked at Jack. He nodded to her in response.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
Bashir Hadi whispered something to Yazmina, probably to stay behind the counter, and approached the table himself.
“We don’t serve beer here.”
“Come on,” the young man said. “Sure you do.” He looked Bashir Hadi up and down. “This guy won’t serve us beer,” he said to his friend, “because he’s Hazara and we’re Afghan.”
“No—it’s because—” began Bashir Hadi, but he was interrupted.
“Because why?” asked the other.
Sunny stood, looked at Jack.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Let him handle this.”
She slowly sat down.
“We don’t serve beer,” explained Bashir Hadi slowly, as if with each word he was struggling to contain himself, “because we’re a coffeehouse, not a bar. Perhaps you want some tea.”
The two men looked at each other. And then the leader looked over at Sunny, gave her an obsequious smile, and laughed out loud. That was when Jack stood. The young man also stood and faced him.
“Come on,” said his friend, worried about the fight that was brewing. “Let’s get out of here.” Then he dug into his pocket and threw some coins on the table and said to Bashir Hadi, “Here, to feed you and your family for a week!”
“Filthy Hazara,” the other man sneered.
As they sauntered out, Jack followed behind them to the door and watched them until Ahmet closed the gate behind them. Then he turned and said, “Bashir Hadi, my man, come have a drink with us. You handled that well, sir.”
Sunny looked at Bashir Hadi, who obviously felt the weight of Jack’s compliment, but his eyes couldn’t help but convey hurt and anger. He sat next to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
At 8:10, Sunny’s cellphone rang. The landlines in Kabul were about as trustworthy as the rug dealer in the market. If the wind blew too hard, if it rained, if a little bird landed on a wire, the line went dead.
Sunny answered the call, but nobody was there. So she told Ahmet to let his friend at the gate leave. Ahmet resumed his usual place outside.
At 8:22, Jack walked in, a large canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. He looked around the room and raised his brows. He laid the bag gingerly on a table.
“Nice crowd,” he said.
Sunny couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “At least you decided to show up.”
“Honey, I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. “Hello, Halajan,” he said, and then said something in his perfect Dari that made Halajan laugh.
Sunny didn’t know precisely what he’d said, but it was somewhere in the vicinity of Sunny having scared everyone off. Jack sat. And Sunny said, “Very funny.” She joined Jack, and Yazmina served them each a Coke, then retreated behind the counter to the kitchen.
But Jack dug into his bag and pulled out a bottle of wine.
“Let’s get this party started,” he said. “Got any movies?”
“She’s got them,” said Bashir Hadi from the counter. “Miss Sunny took the car out today.”
Sunny glared at Bashir Hadi and then looked at Jack, who was shaking his head unhappily. As if she were a teenager.
“I’ll deal with that,” offered Halajan. She took the bottle to the kitchen and returned with a teapot and three cups. She poured.
“Nice tea,” Jack said. “Good vintage. Let’s toast.”
“To busy nights,” Sunny said.
“To safe driving,” he answered.
At that moment, the door slammed open and two Afghan men, twenty-one, maybe twenty-two years old, walked in and, instead of waiting to be seated properly, sat themselves at a table. They were clearly Pashtun, dressed nicely, of some privilege. What was also clear is that they were high on hashish or something, which made them loud, arrogant, and demanding.
“Hey, two beers over here!” one yelled in his native language, slamming his hand on the table. The other laughed, tilting his chair back.
Sunny’s hackles rose and she looked at Jack. He nodded to her in response.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
Bashir Hadi whispered something to Yazmina, probably to stay behind the counter, and approached the table himself.
“We don’t serve beer here.”
“Come on,” the young man said. “Sure you do.” He looked Bashir Hadi up and down. “This guy won’t serve us beer,” he said to his friend, “because he’s Hazara and we’re Afghan.”
“No—it’s because—” began Bashir Hadi, but he was interrupted.
“Because why?” asked the other.
Sunny stood, looked at Jack.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Let him handle this.”
She slowly sat down.
“We don’t serve beer,” explained Bashir Hadi slowly, as if with each word he was struggling to contain himself, “because we’re a coffeehouse, not a bar. Perhaps you want some tea.”
The two men looked at each other. And then the leader looked over at Sunny, gave her an obsequious smile, and laughed out loud. That was when Jack stood. The young man also stood and faced him.
“Come on,” said his friend, worried about the fight that was brewing. “Let’s get out of here.” Then he dug into his pocket and threw some coins on the table and said to Bashir Hadi, “Here, to feed you and your family for a week!”
“Filthy Hazara,” the other man sneered.
As they sauntered out, Jack followed behind them to the door and watched them until Ahmet closed the gate behind them. Then he turned and said, “Bashir Hadi, my man, come have a drink with us. You handled that well, sir.”
Sunny looked at Bashir Hadi, who obviously felt the weight of Jack’s compliment, but his eyes couldn’t help but convey hurt and anger. He sat next to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
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