Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul Read Free Page B

cool air so strong that he scrambled to shut the door behind him.
    â€œYou are early!” Halajan said, clearly delighted. Najama slid off her lap and ran to embrace the short man’s knees in a tight hug. He, in turn, magically produced a piece of toffee from the pocket of his brown korti , handing it to the child with a kiss on the top of her head.
    â€œAre they still there?” He nodded toward the passageway that led to the house where he lived with Halajan. Yazmina knew he was eager to join her husband and the other men, that he had closed the tailor shop early for this very reason. After all, Rashifhad been the one to push Ahmet in this direction, the one who had first encouraged him to open his eyes and form his own ideas, who had convinced him to loosen his grip on some of the old fundamentalist ways. Sitting among Ahmet and his friends from the university, discussing new ideas and new ways of doing things, surely must bring back memories of Rashif’s own early days as an activist. If only it were not so risky, meeting like that in a time and a place where anything that went on behind closed doors was cause for gossip, or worse.
    â€œThey have been in there for hours already. Please tell Ahmet he is needed here in the coffeehouse. It’s getting late.” But before she had finished her sentence, Rashif was already out the back door.
    â€œLet them be, dokhtar .” Halajan rose to begin setting the tables. “If our country is to find its way forward, we must make room for thoughts to simmer a little. Talk can be a powerful weapon, because one day it will lead to action. We must use patience. Our struggle has been a long one, but stumbling forward is better than plunging back.”
    Yazmina knew better than to argue with the old woman. Although she could hear Rashif’s voice in Halajan’s words, she knew how proud she was of her son’s virtuous nature and his ability to allow change in himself, even if it sometimes seemed to come at a pace as slow as a mule’s. But deep down he was clearly his mother’s son, her modernist ways seeping in through the blood they shared.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. There was a girl at the gate, reported Daoud, the chokidor who was on guard. Zara, she said she was called. She was asking for someone named Omar. Perhaps someone should come to see what this was about?
    â€œI will go,” said Yazmina, seeing Bashir Hadi bend over to open the oven door in an attempt to rescue his cookies from burning. She pulled her pashmina shawl around her. “ Bya , come Poppy,” she ordered the German shepherd that Sunny had left behind. She waited as the old dog rose from her spot by the warm oven and stretched, first her front legs, then the back. Though she wasn’t much of a watchdog anymore, Poppy merely being there was enough to make many people think twice about their actions.
    When Yazmina saw the visitor standing alone by the gate, she understood why Daoud had hesitated to let her enter. Women in burqas were not a common sight at the coffeehouse. And with the chatter about threats of suicide bombings against places where foreigners gather, conducted by men disguised as covered women, one had to have suspicions about what that burqa might be hiding.
    But as Yazmina drew closer she could see by the shivering narrow shoulders and the feet—small and slender even in their sneakers—that this was truly just a young girl. “Come inside, little one,” she said softly. “Let us get out of this cold.”
    Yazmina saw Bashir Hadi’s face turn stiff with alarm as she entered with the covered girl. Halajan stood defiantly and drew Najama tightly into her arms. For one long moment, the coffeehouse remained silent.
    The girl must have noticed as well, for suddenly she flipped the entire burqa up and over her head to reveal the blue denim jeans and yellow T-shirt underneath.