* * *
‘HELLO, MY FRIEND,’ Babur said, wiping his hands on his dirty apron as he came to stand in front of Omar. ‘I saw you talking with Behnaz. She looked pretty angry with you.’ He needed to know whether it had something to do with the shabnamah.
‘She’s always angry at me.’
‘That’s true.’ Babur couldn’t help feeling sorry for his old friend. Behnaz was a prickly character at the best of times, but these days she seemed to keep the worst for poor old Omar, although Babur could remember a time when Omar and Behnaz had been good friends. He wondered again what had happened, but knowing the young Omar he’d probably done something inappropriate.
‘So,’ Babur said, making an effort to sound casual as he inspected the stains on his apron, ‘any more news about your shabnamah?’
‘It probably wasn’t a shabnamah,’ Omar said. ‘I think you should wait until tomorrow.’
‘Why?’ Fear prickled under Babur’s skin. ‘What’s going to happen tomorrow?’
‘All I can tell you is that you shouldn’t worry.’ Omar reached out and patted Babur’s hand. ‘It’s not meant for you, my friend.’
‘How do you know? I mean, how can you be so sure?’
‘Trust me.’
Babur would like to be able to trust Omar, but he had been getting things confused a lot lately. ‘Is the shabnamah about Dr Sofia?’
Omar stopped patting Babur’s hand. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because she came into my shop in a big hurry and needed to go somewhere with Tawfiq and she was wearing her coat.’ As Babur was saying this he noticed his grill was blazing out of control and the cook was nowhere to be seen. He needed to go. ‘And how many times have you ever seen Dr Sofia wearing that coat? She was hiding something,’ he said, excusing himself as he hurried off.
With no customers in the shop, Babur dampened the flame before reaching for the samovar to pour boiling water into the rose-painted teapot. Soon the aromas of green tea, cardamom pods, cinnamon bark, saffron strands and a hint of rosewater would be filling his nostrils. Pouring a glass for himself, he carried it and the teapot out to the table normally reserved for Mustafa and Dr Jabril.
Maybe the shabnamah was about him or maybe it wasn’t, he thought as he took Dr Jabril’s customary seat. Maybe it was about Dr Sofia, or maybe Omar had got everything confused. For some time Babur had been suspicious that Omar was self-medicating too liberally. He also wondered whether anyone else had actually seen this shabnamah. Taking his first calming sips of the brew, he thought about his options again. The safest thing to do was surely to get rid of the alcohol, but the man he had bought it from still had not come to collect it, even though he said he could have it back for free. If it was a shabnamah, and it was about him, how did he let the Taliban know when the alcohol was gone – whoever the Talib in the square might be? At least when the Russians were in Kabul, or the Taliban was in control, you knew who the enemy was, but now he had no idea. Babur looked around the square again.
Off to the right he could see Ahmad talking with an early customer. From the body language Babur knew things were not going so well. Ahmad had taken possession of the pair of sandals the man had been inspecting and was now leaning in too closely and talking too fast, causing the man to lean away. Babur could tell the customer was already lost. Ahmad was the only one who couldn’t see it. As far as Babur was concerned there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with Ahmad’s goods, other than the fact that you could buy them all over Kabul. Ahmad’s real problem was the way he pressured his customers.
In the shop next to Ahmad, Hadi was perched on his stool reading a newspaper, oblivious to the drama taking place in front of him. Hadi, like everyone else in the square, had seen it all before. Further over in front of Dr Sofia’s surgery, Rashid and Iqbal were sitting together in silence. Babur wondered again why the two men seemed such close companions when Rashid seldom said anything and Iqbal preferred his own company. Perhaps it was the silences that bound them?
To the left and directly opposite Ahmad and Hadi’s shops and Dr Sofia’s surgery, Omar had returned to sit in front of his shop and was now fast asleep. Babur had a soft spot for Omar but that Viagra thing had been a mistake, just as his alcohol had been. Babur looked around the square again. None of his friends were Talib, he decided. Nor would they write threatening notes. It had to be that brother-in-law of his, or else it wasn’t for him at all. He wished he knew which one it was.
Iman caught Babur’s attention as she came dancing around the corner of the square by the mosque, earplugs firmly fixed to the phone. That ‘Rainbow Shaahir Square’ campaign of hers had been a madness that would have destroyed his precious square, he thought as he watched her, conveniently forgetting his enthusiasm for it and its tempting promise of international fame for the chaikhana.
‘As-salaam alaikum,’ he called and waved as she passed.
‘Wa alaikum as-salaam,’ she called back with a smile.
It was a shame the girl went too far, flaunting things that were better left hidden. Even as he censored Iman he could feel his old heart softening around her. She reminded him of the young women of Kabul he used to know, especially the young Behnaz when she had first
