‘Your contact with the midwives?’
Sofia considered this. ‘I’ll talk with Fatima; she’s the woman who runs the group. If she’s willing to speak with you and you’re able to come with me on Friday then we might be able to arrange something. Alternatively, you could simply talk with her on the phone.’
‘In person would be better if that’s possible.’
‘Would you be able to come on Friday and back late Saturday night? It’s a quick trip. ’
‘I could.’
Sofia sat back and smiled at Daniel. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Ditto.’
She checked the time on the clock again. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got a patient coming soon.’ The lie had slipped out so easily it surprised her. ‘Let me walk you out.’
14
IQBAL HAD FINISHED setting up his little workshop in his usual spot next to the entry to Sofia’s surgery. A pile of broken shoes were stacked neatly beside him while the tools of his trade – a bottle of glue, a miniature hammer, an old paintbrush with half its bristles missing, a bundle of rags, and a small tin with the lid cut off to hold his tacks – were spread out at his feet. With his walking stick stowed safely behind him, Iqbal was ready for his first customer.
Having been taught the cobbling trade by his father when he was six years old, Iqbal would reminisce with Sofia about the golden days when rich Afghans had ordered beautiful shoes in soft new leather from the family shop in central Kabul. While those days were long gone and rich Afghans didn’t find their way into Shaahir Square seeking the services of an old cobbler with failing eyesight, Iqbal still loved his trade. For the most part he charged a few afghanis to tack on a sole or stitch a loose flap on a neighbour’s shoe to help it last through another winter, but if there was no money he would perform the service for free and, in return, he might be given a warm meal or a special sweet.
Although Iqbal’s face had grown as dark and brittle as the old leather he worked on, whenever he saw Dr Sofia it crinkled into tiny creases of love. As Sofia and Daniel stepped out into the square, Iqbal looked up at them, lifting his hand to shade his eyes from the sun.
‘And who is this beautiful stranger you’ve brought my way today, Dr Sofia?’
Sofia looked over at Daniel and saw the smile. He had understood every word Iqbal had said. ‘This is Dr Daniel, a very important man from the United Nations who has come here to help Afghans.’
Iqbal motioned for Sofia to bring Daniel closer so that he might see better. Over the years Sofia had bought Iqbal cheap reading glasses from Chicken Street, but inevitably he had lost them. When she had offered to replace the last pair he had begged her not to bother wasting her afghani. He could still see well enough to repair a shoe. He didn’t need to see more than that.
‘Insha’Allah. Let us pray that this one, who I think is prettier than most, might do something for us. You must tell this prince of heaven that our lives are very hard here, Dr Sofia.’
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself, Iqbal? Dr Daniel speaks perfect Dari.’
Iqbal chuckled without a trace of embarrassment before looking at Daniel with renewed interest. ‘You are a prince, my friend. I see you and I see that you have been blessed.’
As Daniel and Iqbal began talking, Hadi and Ahmad wandered over to join Sofia in their open examination of the visitor. She was enjoying the scene being played out before her. Iqbal was dear to her heart while Daniel was still the kind and gentle man she remembered from the village, but she could tell already this was not the same man she had taken as a lover. Something had changed for him. Something for the better.
She noticed Iqbal eyeing Daniel’s soft leather boots and knew her friend would be itching to touch them. Daniel must have noticed this too because he sat down on the little wooden stool Iqbal kept for the comfort of his customers and took one boot off before offering it to the cobbler. ‘It is by the graces of Allah that Dr Sofia has brought me to you this day. Perhaps you would be so kind as to repair my boot for me?’ Daniel showed Iqbal where the sole had begun to lift.
Taking the soft boot in his bony old hands, Iqbal began examining it. ‘This is a very fine boot. No,’ he said, offering the boot back to Daniel. ‘I’m not worthy of this beautiful boot.’
Daniel refused to take the boot back. ‘I can see that you’re the finest of craftsmen and I’m sure Dr Sofia will confirm this, and that there could be no one better in all of Kabul to fix this boot for me.’ Daniel looked up at Sofia.
‘Indeed, it’s true, Dr Daniel. Iqbal is the best in Kabul. Probably in all of Afghanistan.’
Iqbal’s thin chest visibly expanded as he began examining the boot again before lifting his old brush, dipping it into his pot of glue and painting it across the offending sole. When he’d finished he weighed it down with rocks to set. Picking up
