‘Donkey droppings are good luck,’ offered Tawfiq as they got out of the car.
‘Yeah, I can see that. Afghanistan’s a real paradise,’ offered Clementine.
‘Come on, my friend,’ Daniel said, wrapping his arm around Tawfiq’s shoulders as he led him into the café. ‘We’re all hungry and some of us can be grumpy when we haven’t eaten.’
The entry to Forood’s café was beside an alley in which rickety stalls had been set up to display growers’ produce. Women in burqas were wandering down the alleyway between the stalls, inspecting pieces of raw meat, running their hands through hessian bags of grain, and picking up vegetables to feel their worthiness. On the opposite side of the alley was a tiny ice cream parlour conspicuously empty of patrons, its throbbing generator dripping water into a puddle that had created a little river of mud running between the stalls.
Inside the café the air was thick with the greasy smell of meat and cigarette smoke. Behind a counter dividing the cooking and the seating areas a charcoal brazier was splattering, flames leaping into the air as skewers of mutton dripped fat onto the burning coals. Along one wall was the kitchen while on the opposite wall was a raised timber bench where half a dozen men were sitting cross-legged, chatting as they spooned food into their mouths with their fingers. Their sandals had been placed just inside the door; their rifles leaned up against the wall behind them.
When the foreigners entered conversation ceased, causing the cook to look up from his work until his face split into a grin. ‘Forood! Forood!’ he shouted toward the back door of the café before wiping greasy hands on his apron and leaning dangerously over the grill to kiss Daniel on both cheeks. ‘My friend, my friend,’ he said, before calling out to Forood again. Daniel pointed toward the door and raised his eyebrows questioningly. The cook nodded just as Forood came through the door laden with dishes and saw Daniel standing in front of him.
‘Ah!’ Forood cried, putting the plates down on the counter before enveloping his friend in a hug and kisses. ‘Where have you been?’ He stood back to examine Daniel. ‘I’ve missed you, my friend. It has been too long.’
‘It has, it has,’ Daniel said, slapping him on the back. ‘And how is the family, Forood? Humaira and the kids?’
‘Ah,’ Forood laughed, ‘I have five little ones now and another on the way. Insha’Allah this will be the last! Move along, move along,’ he said, turning his attention to his curious patrons. ‘Make room for my special guest and his friends.’
After Daniel made introductions they all settled into the tiny space the men had made for them before being presented with little plates of food dictated by what was available in the alleyway beside the café that day and the whims and impulses of Forood’s uncle, the cook. Within a short time the floral dastarkhan had disappeared under the weight of food: hard-boiled eggs, rounds of naan, a limp green lettuce drenched in oil, steaming hot bean soup and a bowl of stringy goat floating in an oily liquid. Glasses were filled with tea that had been brewing for so long it was undrinkable to all but Tawfiq, who heaped in the sugar. After they’d finished eating, Forood cleared the dishes away, brought a plate of freshly baked pistachio biscuits to the table and sat down next to Daniel.
‘Where have you been, my friend?’ he asked, wrapping his arm around Daniel’s shoulders and giving him a squeeze.
‘Here and there. Too much time in Geneva, I’m afraid.’
‘And what brings you to Kandahar again?’
As Daniel explained his work for the UN, Sofia, Clementine and Tawfiq talked among themselves about the dangers of Kandahar, Taban’s work in the slum and what might happen when all the Western troops pulled out until Daniel reminded them that it was time to go.
‘But when will I see you again?’ Forood asked, looking morose before his face lit up. ‘I know, come with me tonight. You will be my special guest.’
Daniel turned to Sofia to ask how long she thought he would be with Fatima that afternoon.
‘Seven … seven-thirty?’ she said, pulling a face as if to say, ‘Your guess is as good as mine’.
It was decided that Daniel would meet Forood in downtown Kandahar outside a defunct video store at eight.
Once out in the street again they found themselves surrounded by a bunch of raggedy street urchins, their hands held out for baksheesh. Sofia’s attention was caught by a little boy of no more than five or six who was standing back from the others. When he turned his head she saw that part of his cheek had been eaten away, lost to leishmaniasis, a potentially fatal but largely treatable disease spread by sandflies. Having also noticed the child, Clementine was crouching down in front of him, but when the other boys realised something was happening they began crowding around.
‘If you go to the MSF clinic the people there can do something for your face. Do you think you could do that?’ she said in Pashto.
An older boy with a dark fringe flopping in his eyes and dressed in an old perahan tunban stepped forward. ‘Will it cost money? He doesn’t have money.’
Clementine looked up at the boy. ‘No, he’ll be treated for free.’ She stood again, dusting her hands off before pointing to the MSF sign on the side of the security car. ‘This is the clinic you should go to. Do you know this place?’
‘I know it, but there are others who have this disease,’ the boy said.
‘Then they should go also.’
‘We will get money if we go?’
‘No. Your friends will get help.’
The boy considered this. ‘Okay, we’ll go.’
Sofia had been surprised to hear Clementine speak perfect Pashto, the predominant language of the south. Perhaps she needed to reassess her opinion of the woman, which she was painfully aware had been coloured by an
