Saving Kabul Corner (2 page)

“Two lattes, please. And—,” said Ariana, turning to Laila. “Do you want something?”

Laila shrugged, looking around the store with wide, curious eyes.

Ariana bristled. Laila never talked to her much—she seemed to talk to everyone else in the family, but mostly ignored her. Ariana would have blown Laila off, but her father had told her to get something for
both
of them. “How about a hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate?” repeated Laila, a look of confusion on her face. “Chocolate that is hot?”

“You'll like it. Give me two small hot chocolates, too,” she added to the barista.

“Should we get something for the boys?” asked Laila.

Ariana had forgotten about them. “And a couple of chocolate chip cookies, please.”

While the barista whipped up their order, Laila wandered off to look at the ceramic teapot display. Ariana stood watching a group of men playing chess near the front door and spotted a familiar stooped figure, partially hidden behind the coffee display: it was Lucinda Wong, their landlord. The elderly woman was deep in conversation with a short, burly man with a mane of reddish hair. His back was toward Ariana, so she couldn't make out his face. The barista handed her a cardboard tray with the drinks and cookies, and when Ariana turned back, Mrs. Wong and the man were gone.

Ariana watched the look of wonder spread across Laila's face as they exited. Her cousin had taken a tentative sip of the rich, smooth hot chocolate, and whipped cream lined her upper lip.

Ariana couldn't help but smile. “It's good, huh?”

Laila nodded, licking her lip clean.

Eyes shielded from the bright glare of the sun, Ariana noticed a sign hanging from the empty building at the east end of Wong Plaza.
That's odd
, she thought. The building had been empty for more than a year, and she'd heard her father say that Lucinda had been trying to rent it out for months. Curious, Ariana walked over to read the notice.

Coming Soon!

Pamir Market

Purveyor of fine foods, halal meat, breads, and Afghan groceries

Ariana stood in front of the sign, her hot chocolate forgotten. A competing Afghan grocery store was opening in the same strip mall as Kabul Corner.
Father and Uncle Shams are not going to like this—not at all
, thought Ariana.

H
IDDEN
IN
THE HALLWAY
, one brown eye peering around the doorway, Ariana spied into the kitchen. Her father sat at the dining table, his cheeks flushed as he listened on the phone. She stood still, straining to listen, but it was hard because of the racket overhead. The twins and Uncle Shams's boys were upstairs, running through the halls, playing Nerf Blasters. Every so often there'd be a loud thump when one of them fell off a bed.
Those dorks better not be in my room
, she thought, seething. When they'd gotten home from the store, Ariana had been tempted to tag along with Zayd to Fadi's house. Fadi's younger sister, Mariam, was her best friend. They had plans to catch up before school started, but after seeing the worry on her father's face, she'd stayed behind to snoop.

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 over 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.”