Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul by Deborah Rodriguez Page A

place didn’t seem to be helping much with that. She’d felt muddled and soft ever since she had stepped off that ferry. It was as though the island had cast an evil spell on her, one that made her lazy, and hungry, all the time.
    Yes, decisions needed to be made. But maybe not right this moment. Candace was coming to town. And she was bringing a surprise.

12
    The blue dome capping the faded walls of the Shah-e-Do Shamshaira mosque loomed before her, the edifice nearly blending in to the dusty hills beyond and clear sky above, save for its stacked white columns and high, arched windows. Halajan rushed past, through the gaggle of old men stooping to feed the pigeons, her eyes straight ahead, defying anyone who might wonder at a woman traveling alone in the center of the city.
    The streets were jammed with traffic, horns blaring and tailpipes spitting out enough fumes to choke an elephant. She covered her nose and mouth with the bottom of her scarf and turned left onto the narrow bridge that spanned the Kabul River, its once verdant banks and flowing waters now a mud-caked trench littered with garbage and filth. Once safely on the other side, she paused for a moment to catch her breath, then continued left toward the Mondai-e bazaar, past the vendors on the streets surrounding the market, many crouched next tothe blankets spread at their feet, others leaning on their wheeled carts as they sipped their chai , waiting for a taker for the fabrics and undergarments and sugarcane juice they offered. These were the ones, she knew, who were not allowed to be selling, who had not paid for the right to have their space. But that didn’t seem to stop anyone from buying. As Halajan was about to make the right turn into the passageway that would lead her to her destination, she heard a small voice at her side. “Rabbits, maadar kalaan ? Do you need some rabbits today, grandmother?”
    She turned to see a grinning boy no older than ten, his clothes in tatters and his face smeared with dirt, offering a birdcage heaped with a squirming pile of brown fur. But as she bent closer for a better look, the boy’s smile suddenly collapsed, his eyes widening with fear. Out of the corner of her own eye she spied a blue-shirted policeman waving a stick. The boy lifted his arms to cover his face before the first blow fell. Halajan heard his cry and quickly stepped in front of him, raising her head to look the menacing man squarely in his steely eyes. This time the stick stopped in midair. Halajan’s look narrowed into a squinting dare as she remained frozen in place, waiting for the rage to leave the man’s face. Then she turned and began to slowly walk away, one eye remaining behind to make sure it was understood that there was no sale underway, and no reason to harass. The boy smiled and waved. Halajan quickened her step. Najama didn’t want a rabbit anyway. No, it was a peacock Halajan was after. And today, she was in the mood for a deal.
    Through the tight alleyways she wound, first left then right then left again. She knew her way well, from the times she had been here as a girl, with her father. The lane grew smaller as she continued—another left, then a right—until the sounds of the street were completely drowned out by the twitters and trillsand caws bouncing off the crumbling mud walls. The Alley of Straw Sellers, where men had gathered for many generations with birds for sale, lay straight ahead.
    Halajan squeezed her arms close to her body as she entered the heart of the market, where in some places it was not even wide enough for two people to pass without touching. Seeds and husks sailed through the close air, stirred up by the flapping of hundreds of wings.
    It did not seem all that long ago to her that the birds of Kabul had been silenced by the Taliban. In a place where even the poorest of homes followed the old royal tradition of keeping songbirds, the bird sellers at the Market Kaa Forushi