Marie Bamyani

The Café

Translated from the Dari by Dr Negeen Kargar

The voice of an angry customer fills the entire café.  

“What kind of waiters do you hire here?”

Everyone turns their heads towards the sound. Concerned, Michael, the owner of the café, goes to the end of the room where a man is sitting at a table by the window. I anxiously look towards it and see Shirin walking away. After talking to the man briefly, Michael points me to table eight with his usual gesture. I take the last empty cup from the table and put it on the cleaning shelf. Then I walk back to the customer with the bill.

The man hands me back the bill, brings his head closer and says with a meaningful smile: “Keep the tip for yourself.”

He smiles once more and says in a low voice that only I can hear: “If you come out with me, you’ll receive more than this.”

Then, with a playful and intentional wink, he leans back in the chair. He looks young, maybe between thirty-five and forty. He has white skin and blond hair which is unevenly parted down the middle of his head. The black coat and long, white shirt with a collar add to his charm, contrasting sharply with his leering smile. After saying thank you for your kindness, please wait for me to return with your change, I calmly walk away from his table.

Michael sits under the golden lamp hanging from the ceiling of the café, wearing the insincere smile which he says works marvels. Being a workhorse himself, he also watches our movements like a control freak. It’s just his personality, the way he is. He controls everything and every situation obsessively and whatever he wants must be implemented with no objection. For instance, he tells us to clean the corridors, bathrooms, tables and chairs twice daily so that everything shines perfectly. We have to wipe the lights and lamps hanging from the ceiling every day. We need to arrange the plates, forks and glasses according to a ‘law of three’ that apparently applies in cafes. It’s just like the proverb that says crows must be with crows and pigeons with pigeons. So the glasses must be washed first, dried and arranged on the shelf in order of shape and size. Then the forks and knifes and, finally, the plates should be in the same order and sequence. There is no questioning or any explanation for this law.  

However, the foremost rule here is: Smile! It’s also the name of the café. I think it is the most ridiculous rule, but Shirin likes it. She says this way at least she can avoid Michael for a second just by showing a smile, and then she can laugh wholeheartedly behind his back at his idea of a perfect world.

Shirin wears a white half-apron that reaches from her waist to just above her knee. With her artistic, delicate manner, she has tied the slim, patterned bobbin lace strips into a bow around her waist. She is now wiping the last table with a napkin designated only for table surfaces. She has gathered her hair on the top of her head with a white knot; it looks like a beautiful mushroom is sleeping on it. But it is only to keep her hair out of the way at work. Of course, tying up your hair like a mushroom is rule number two of the café. This regulation about hair is exclusively for the waitresses. Luckily for the men, they are exempt from it, as they happily like to point out. I tell Shirin it is unfair that all these rules and laws are written only for women to follow. Shirin smiles back and says, “You’ve understood this too late.”

Michael’s distasteful gaze goes towards Shirin. He tells her to meet him in his office. The bright blush on Shirin’s cheeks and the pinkish aura around her face fades away as she walks in the direction of his office. She turns to me, looking like an innocent child being punished for no reason. I can read and sense the fear in her beautiful black, almond-shaped eyes.  

The first time I saw this look on Shirin’s face was in Kabul. I was filming with my phone when she was slapped hard around the face, which started bleeding. But her voice continued to get louder and louder, and she carried on with her protests against injustice, repeating the three words: Nan, Kar Azadi! Bread, Work, Freedom!

The second time, she was hit on the back with a gun and fell to the ground. Nonetheless, she continued to protest even louder, and Bread, Work, Freedom! could be heard in the chaos and mayhem of Kabul.  

The third time, she felt feet stamping on her when she threw herself on the lifeless body of her sister and shouted Let me take my sister’s body! She carries the mark of the Taliban’s heavy, dirty boots, and the trauma she witnessed on that day with her even now. Those scars remain on her body, soul — and her tongue. No longer can she protest fluently for Bread, Work, Freedom! Shirin carries the memories of that miserable day with her every moment, most noticeably when she tries to speak effortlessly.  

I quickly reach the cashier’s desk and hand the money and bill to Michael. Hopefully I’ve granted Shirin some time or perhaps Michael will dismount the devil’s donkey.

I abruptly say: “Table Eight.”  

He replies angrily, “And how about the tip?”

I say: “None!”

He’d prefer a different answer. Extremely unhappily, he opens the bill and takes out the hundred euro banknote. He puts some notes in and grumpily hands it back to me. Then, with his frowning eyebrows and droopy lip, he goes into his office.

I hasten to table eight. It is separated from the cashier’s desk by four tables and a glass window and is located just to the left of the exit. The man has gone, but a piece of paper with a phone number is on the table. I pick up the note and anxiously move to behind the cashier’s desk. The sound of my heels tapping in the corridor towards the office breaks the dreadful silence. I quieten my approach and stand silently for a few minutes behind this fortune-telling gate, trying to catch something of the situation inside. There is no sound. I anxiously knock on the entrance to announce my arrival and enter without waiting for a response.

The room is relatively large, owing all its natural light to the two windows on the south and east sides. Right in front of the eastern window is an oak table and a shelf filled with books. On the left side of the table is a pot containing a plant with leaves like open umbrellas, adding to the beauty of the room. A grey couch and a glass table sit in the middle of the room opposite the oak table. Three unmatching rectangular photo frames on the east wall give the room a fashionable feel.

Michael is on his feet. As he leaves his office, he says: “But you can stay until the end of the day.”

I look at Shirin. She is sitting in the middle of the long couch, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her feet.  

I walk up to her and ask: “So, what happened? What did he say?”

She doesn’t reply. As if her ears have stopped listening.  

“Shirin!”

Without looking at me, Shirin says, “W-w-what s-s-shall I do? W-w-why am I s-s-so unlucky?”  

I hug her tight in my arms and try to comfort her, “Don’t worry, you’ll find a better job than this; there are plenty of jobs…”  

Her sobbing sounds like the last notes of sad music in the room. I hug her again. She raises her head and tries to wipe her puffy eyes with her hands.  

She says in a hoarse voice:

“I-I-I knew t-t-this w-w-would h-h-happen. After all, w-w-which sane person w-w-wants to take a r-r-risk on s-s-someone l-l-like me?”

She was correct. I’d witnessed how hard it was for her to find a job. So many times she had been rejected because of her stammering. No wonder that Shirin was always sad. Sometimes, I thought that if misery had an original form, maybe it was Shirin. According to her, place has no meaning for a sad person; wherever they go, misery accompanies them – even right into the heart of modern Europe.

Shirin takes a deep breath and says: “K-k-k-abul became c-c-colourless for me after my sister’s d-d-death.” She sobs then, still stammering, carries on. “It was not possible for me to breathe in the same air as my sister’s killers. I ran for miles between the forests and the sea, thirsty and hungry, cold and barefoot, to get here, to be safe, so that maybe I could give colour to my life, but the times are not reconciled with me. Every time I take one step forward, I have take two steps back. Why? After all, isn’t being a woman in this world enough of a torment already, that the ord gives me this stutter too?”

I know she is angry and disappointed and that every time this anger comes back it is like a decaying wound which threatens her whole immune system. I don’t know what to say. My brain has stopped working. I’m looking for a sentence to give Shirin some peace and hope.          

Looking away, Shirin unties the white apron from around her waist and puts it on the table.  

Shocked, I look at her and say: “Where are you going? We still have time until the end of the shift.”  Shirin shakes her head and hurries towards the door.  

I quickly run after her and call. “Shirin?”

Shirin pretends not to hear me. She picks up her rucksack and goes to the exit.  

I run and take her hand. I put the money in her hand and say: “Keep this, please, it is not much but…”

She smiles with bitterness in her eyes and leaves without a word.

I watch her go, hoping that she is laughing with all her heart because she is now free. I smile, a sweet smile or a bitter one, I don’t know which.  

“Maria? Maria!”

It is Michael’s voice calling me back into the cafe. 

About Marie Bamyani

Marie Bamyani is a new writer from Afghanistan who is now living in Germany. Her first story was published in the anthology My Pen Is the Wing of a Bird, New Fiction by Afghan Women, (MacLehose Press, 2022). She was also part of the writer’s group who created Rising After the Fall, (Scholastic, 2023)

ABOUT UNTOLD NARRATIVES

Untold Narratives  is a small social enterprise that works with writers marginalised by conflict or community. Based in the UK, Untold has been working with Afghan women writers since 2019. The writers collaborate with international editors and translators in an intensive, virtual, editorial process to develop their work; share their stories with wider communities in their own languages and grow global audiences in translation. Recent publications include, My Pen Is the Wing of a Bird, New Fiction by Afghan Women (MacLehose Press, 2022).

As Kabul fell to the Taliban in August 2021, many of these women writers left Afghanistan to start new lives as refugees in other countries. Farangis Elyassi and Fatima Saadat were the first of this writers’ group to leave Afghanistan.  Two months later Marie left, courtesy of the international organisation she was working for. They continue to stay connected and develop their craft with Untold, from their new homes in the USA and Germany. Parand has remained in Afghanistan, writing under a pseudonym to protect her safety.

All four stories are inspired by real life and reflect the breadth of the experience of Afghan women writers, living all over the world, forging new lives. These pieces were developed this year, through the Paranda Network, a global initiative from Untold Narratives  with support from KFW Stiftung to connect and amplify the voices of writers from Afghanistan and those in the diaspora.