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

had been thriving. But to the fundamentalists, there was only one song that mattered—the song of the Koran—and everything else was deemed a distraction. They swarmed through the bird markets and into people’s homes, opening cages and forcing the birds out into a hostile world, one the birds were not prepared for, where many met their fates in the mouths of hungry cats and dogs.
    Now there were plenty of people keeping birds again. For even on the darkest of days, in a home with little money to spare, the song of a bird is an invitation to dream. And besides, how much trouble could a bird be anyway? thought Halajan. As Sunny used to say about Yazmina, they ate like birds .
    Today in the market there seemed to be more socializing than selling going on; the men and boys crouched close to their stalls, sharing a laugh or a smoke or a cup of chai . But as Halajan walked past their chatter suddenly seemed to come to a halt, silenced by the sight of a woman trespassing through their male world.
    That made Halajan itch for a bargain even more. Was her money not good enough? And what was the problem? shethought as she stopped for a moment to scan the alleyway behind her. She could not see even one other customer interested in purchasing their wares. Halajan took a deep breath, inhaling the cloud of cigarette smoke around her, and continued deeper into the dark maze.
    She passed the dog kennels empty of dogs but crowded with chickens and roosters and ducks, and circled around to the place where men kept their prized kowks and little budanas in airy wicker cages, to be let out only for show. Here the birds were treated like kings, coddled and fussed over from Saturday to Thursday, with hopes that Friday morning would bring riches from the men placing bets on their fighting prowess. Though from what Halajan remembered being told, even then the birds were scooped up and shielded from clawing talons before any true battle could occur. They were far too valuable to let any real harm come to them.
    Deeper and deeper she went, through the jumble of cages filled with canaries and finches belting out their birdsong in the dark alleyway. Some looked a little worn, others seemed scrappy. Halajan thought how confused they must all be from the darkness. You would hardly know what time of day it was, if it weren’t for the slivers of sunlight breaking through the narrow slats of the tin roofs above. But it was the caged doves that made her the saddest, with their hopeless dreams of flight stirred daily by the coos of their luckier brothers and sisters soaring through the late afternoon Kabul skies.
    Finally she came upon the peacocks. Halajan planted herself firmly in front of a toothless vendor who sat on his heels, sipping his tea. The man barely raised his eyes.
    â€œHow much?” she asked without bothering to stop for the usual formalities.
    â€œTwelve thousand.”
    Halajan laughed. “The cost of half a year’s rice just for one little bird?”
    â€œThat is my price.” The man stood and turned away from her, busying himself with a leaky bag of seed.
    â€œYou must be a very rich man, to turn away at the smell of money.”
    The man shrugged his shoulders and continued with his task.
    â€œTwelve thousand afghanis for a bird that does not even sing. And that one over there, the one missing the feathers on his wing. How much is he?”
    The man turned toward the bird and hesitated. “Ten thousand,” he grunted.
    â€œFor a scraggly old bird? You should be paying me to take him off your hands.”
    â€œHe still has a beautiful tail. One with colors that will fetch a hefty sum.”
    â€œOkay. So then what about the white one? Who would want a peacock with no color?”
    â€œThe albino peacock is very rare. Very prized. That will cost you thirteen thousand.”
    Halajan turned to leave, feeling insulted by this greedy man who seemed to have no sense. She pulled her scarf