Free A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez Page A

his mother as they walked quickly in the rain, the muddy ground giving way beneath their feet.
    “Sunny asked me to check on her curtains, but they were not ready. There is no time for talk. We must get to Yazmina before she becomes drenched.”
    He looked at her but she didn’t turn to look at him, and he felt foolish. He sounded suspicious and silly, but he knew of Rashif from the elders at the mosque and he didn’t like him. It was a long time ago, but, as the story was told, when Rashif was younger he’d been active in a reform group that aided Afghan refugees, one of those antitraditionalist groups of so-called intellectuals that received American money, embraced Western values, and helped Afghans in only one way: to forget who they were and who they are and who, in the eyes of Muhammad, they were destined to be.
    That tailor had the heart of a modernist, just like his own mother. Ahmet had to love and respect his mother, according to the precepts. But he didn’t have to like Rashif one bit.

“W hat’s with you?” Sunny asked.
    Jack had come in that morning distracted and cranky. He hardly said hello, sat, gulped his coffee, and buried himself in his newspaper.
    Finally, he looked up. “You,” he said. “That’s what’s with me.” And he went back to his paper.
    “Excuse me?” Sunny said, putting a hand on her hip. “When you’re ready to discuss it, you know where to find me.” She turned and walked away.
    But behind her she heard, “Two things.”
    So she turned around, walked back to his table, and said, “So give me the bad news.”
    “Driving that damn car around town like you did yesterday.”
    He sounded as closed minded as an old Afghan man talking to his youngest wife. She knew he hated the car; he’d warned her about it and had explained why a woman shouldn’t be out alone in Kabul, many times.
    She sighed loudly. “And?”
    “Jesus, Sunny, it’s dangerous,” he said with frustration. “And two, Bashir Hadi gives you this great idea to build your wall higher so you can make more money and be safer and then you just sit on your ass, as nice as it is,” he said, craning his neck to look at her butt.
    “Oh, shut up,” she said in return. “What am I supposed to do? Nobody came.”
    “Give them a reason, for God’s sake. We came up with a hell of a lot of good ideas last night. I know you’re not stupid. So, what is it, are you stupid?”
    She scowled then, and he smiled. She sat down at his table. Picked up his fork and tasted his egg. “Um, that’s good.”
    “Yes, it was.”
    “Okay, so I liked the idea of getting a speaker. But who?”
    “If I knew I wouldn’t tell you because you’d only blow me off, Ms. Stubborn Know-It-All.”
    She smiled again, this time fully. He could be cute, this fat old fart, who wasn’t so fat or old, and he was only sometimes a fart, not to mention handsome with his square chin and deep eyes.
    “You’re right. I’ll think of someone.”
    “But I do know of a doctor from India working here in the field. Passionate about women’s health issues in Afghanistan, and I know she wants to get the word out about the dire straits these women are in. Besides, I helped her once with something. She owes me.”
    Sunny’s eyes widened. “Really? You think she’ll come speak here at the café?”
    “Only if you beg me.”
    She put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Please.”
    “But promise me one thing.” He paused, waiting for her response, which she took a while to provide. “Hello?”
    “Okay, I promise.”
    “You get people here. Otherwise I’ll be embarrassed.”
    “And we wouldn’t want that,” she said.
    “Come on, Sunny,” he answered with some impatience. “Out of respect for the doctor.”
    She realized, then, how serious he was. “Don’t worry. I’ll get people.”

    One week later, on a bitter cold Wednesday night, Sunny lit the candles, Halajan poured the wine into the teapots, Bashir Hadi