Deborah Rodriguez - A Cup of Friendship

Kabul Beauty School:
An American Woman Goes Behind the Veil

A Cup of Friendship is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Deborah Lynn Rodriguez

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

B ALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Rodriguez, Deborah.
A cup of friendship: a novel / Deborah Rodriguez.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52436-2
1. Coffee shopsAfghanistanKabulFiction. 2. Female friendshipAfghanistanKabulFiction. 3. Kabul (Afghanistan)Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O3582C87 2011
813.6dc22 2010041170

www.ballantinebooks.com

Jacket design: Belina Huey
Jacket illustration: based on images Sadiq Alam (caf exterior), Collection Mix: Subjects/Getty Images (interior), Imagebroker (shutters), Glow Dcor (cups and saucers), Ariel Skelley/Blend Images (tabletop), Olive Images (blue scarf)

v3.1_r1

This book is dedicated with love to the three most important people in my life. My mother, Loie Turner, is a woman who encompasses grace, beauty, and compassion. I owe you so much. Even when we are far apart in miles, you are always close to my heart. And to my sons, Noah and Zachary Lentz, whose journeys are just beginning. Our road was not always a smooth one, but I know it has made us stronger. I hope you will take wisdom from Eleanor Roosevelt, who told us that we must do the things we think we cannot do. You have both become amazing men. I am a very lucky mom.

Women are like tea bags; you never know how strong they are until theyre put in hot water.

ELEANOR ROOSEVELT

I t was a vibrant blue-skied Afghan morning, the kind that made Yazmina stop to loosen her scarf and tilt her face to the sun. She and her younger sister, Layla, were returning from the well, their calloused feet accustomed to repeated treks on the ancient dirt. The tiny cowrie shells that decorated Yazminas long black dress clacked with every step. She looked toward the snow-capped peaks to the north and prayed that this winter, Inshallah, God willing, would not be as bad as the last. It was so cold, so unforgiving, killing the goats, freezing the earth, destroying any chance of a good wheat crop. Another winter like that would surely make the threat of starvation real.

Her secret, the one she carried in her belly, the one she could hide for only another month or two, flooded her with nausea. She tripped on a rock, her body not as sure and strong as it had been working only for one. She almost spilled the water from the kuza, the clay pot that she carried on her shoulder.

Yazmina, be careful! Youre walking like a donkey with three legs, Layla said, even as she struggled with her own kuza. It was almost bigger than she was. Layla had been in high spirits all morning. She was too young to be covered in a chaderi like the one Yazmina was wearing, and her dark hair shone in the sunlight.

When they arrived at their uncles compound, they carefully placed the kuza in the cooking room and headed back to the main house. An unfamiliar black SUV with tinted windows was parked outside, and Layla ran toward it, letting out a squeal of delight.

Look, Yazmina! Look at the landawar! Layla called. Its bigger than our house!

But Yazmina knew that since no one in Nuristan could afford a car like this, it mustve come from the city, and nothing good ever came from the city. A car like this brought a warlord or a drug lord. When cars like this had arrived before, girls had gone missing.

Yazmina tried to laugh with Layla, but her heart sank. Heavy beads of perspiration formed on her brow and nausea overcame her again, though this time it had more to do with her fears than with the baby growing inside her. She stood by the door of the main salon where her uncle was talking to an older man with brown teeth wearing a tan-colored shalwaar kameez. Her uncle looked panicked. He pulled a small cloth purse of money from his pocket and offered it to the man.

This is baksheesh, money fit for a beggar, the man said with a sneer, and struck her uncles hand, making the purse drop to the floor.

She couldnt hear what else was being said, but she could hear her own heartbeat and over it she imagined her uncle pleading for mercy. She leaned heavily against the wall, letting out the breath shed been holding. She couldnt blame him for what hed done. After last years harsh winter, he could barely afford to feed them all. But when Yazminas husband was killed three months before, the one shed known since she was a child and married when she was fifteen, she and Layla had nowhere else to go. It was tradition that forced her uncle to take them in and borrow money from these thieves. She knew what was coming. He would not be able to protect her since he could not repay his debt.

Take my goats! her uncle cried. Take my house, he begged as he dropped to his knees. But do not take Yazmina. It is as if I am selling her. Would you sell your eyes? Would you sell your heart? He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, to think. Besides, he continued, looking up into the cold eyes of the man looming over him, my goats are worth more in the market than she is. She has already been married.

Yes, she is not a girl anymore, the man answered. What I should take is your little one. He turned to Layla, who was now by Yazminas side, his black eyes boring a hole through her.

Yazminas uncle pleaded with him. No, Haji, he said, using the common name for such men. I beg you. She is too young yet. She is still a child.

Yazmina felt her sister take her hand and hold it tightly.

If I cannot get the money you owe me from this one, Ill be back for the little one after the snows have melted. Now come, he commanded Yazmina.

Her uncle stood, and as he looked from the man to Yazmina, his strong jaw worked hard to keep his mouth closed against the curses he was struggling not to utter. He brushed the dust from his knees and escorted her to the car. He told her not to worry, but his face revealed what Yazmina already knew in her heart. She would be driven from her home in Nuristan, southwest on rubble-lined, pockmarked roads, to Kabul, and sold to the highest bidder, to be his third, perhaps even fourth wife, or worse, a slave, or worse yetshe would be forced to be a prostitute.

A young man, unusually tall for an Afghan, with a black beard and deep-set eyes, was at the cars heavy back door, holding it open for Yazmina. Another was sitting in the drivers seat.

Yazmina wanted to fight, to kick and scream and run, but she knew that to resist meant theyd take Layla. So she asked, May I get my things? Can I bring a change of clothes?