A House Without Windows

by Nadia Hashimi

  Gulnaz looped her arm through her daughter’s and turned to walk away, leaving Ama Ferei holding the swaddled offering.

  “Madar, why would she say—”

  “Stop, Zeba. Just let it be.” Gulnaz did not allow Zeba to ask any questions.

  WHEN THE MOON HAD WAXED INTO A FULL GLOBE, THE EXTENDED family gathered once again. Another aunt had delivered a baby over a month ago, and the family convened to mark the infant’s fortieth day of life. Zeba and Gulnaz ran into Ama Ferei just outside the home of the cousin who had invited everyone.

  Zeba nearly gasped.

  Ama Ferei’s face looked taut and angry. The skin around her nose and the corners of her mouth were cracked and peeling. Her scalp was littered with tiny white flakes.

  They exchanged pleasantries and went inside, Gulnaz and Zeba finding their way to the opposite side of the room.

  The roll of fingers on a tabla drowned out the chatter. The mood was festive, but Zeba was too distracted to appreciate it much.

  For most of the night, Zeba watched Ama Ferei rub and scratch at her arms angrily. She stopped whenever her sister-in-law leaned in to speak to her but resumed just as soon as she turned away. Zeba imagined her aunt’s entire body covered in a prickly sheath of scales beneath her cotton dress.

  On their walk home that evening, Zeba looked at her mother’s face, glowing in the creamy light of the moon. Sometimes, it felt absolutely wondrous to be daughter to the green-eyed sorceress.

  CHAPTER 5

  YUSUF HAD FLOWN FROM KENNEDY AIRPORT TO DUBAI, THIRTEEN hours pressed against the window of a 747. He checked into a marble-floored hotel with gaudy chandeliers and plush lounge furniture. Exhausted, he slept for half a day, waking only to wander through the souk in the evening amid knots of pale-faced tourists and white-gowned locals. Storeowners were almost uniformly darker-skinned foreigners, selling goods from India in shops with tentlike openings. Windows shimmered with sets of bangles and elaborate necklaces of eighteen-karat yellow gold. Yusuf quickly tired of the extravagance. He ate kebabs at a sidewalk café and thought of his long-awaited homecoming.

  THE TWO-HOUR FLIGHT TO KABUL PASSED QUICKLY, AND YUSUF stepped off the plane and into a state of wonder. From here, the land of his childhood looked unscathed, as if the events of history were nothing but a bad dream. The mountains were exactly the same as those in his memories.

  It was a short walk from the tarmac to the terminal, with airport workers in fluorescent green pinnies pointing the way.

  Yusuf picked up his luggage from the conveyor belt and met a taxi at the front of the building. It was a short drive from the airport into Kabul, and Yusuf’s eyes stayed glued to the windows. He caught a glimpse of the airport’s main entrance as they drove away.

  The wide glass doors were framed by two portraits. On the right was Ahmad Shah Massoud, the martyred Lion of Panjshir who’d led the Northern Alliance in battle against the Taliban. With his flat, round pakol hat perched atop a head of thick, wavy hair, Massoud had been painted looking off into the distance. His mustache and beard were modest, his looks rugged. In this, as in nearly every picture of him ever captured, he looked like he could have been strategizing an attack on the Taliban or turning over verses of poetry, a combination that described the soul of the nation.

  On the left was Hamid Karzai, Afghanistan’s first president following the ousting of the Taliban in 2001. Karzai’s posture, in contrast, was like one from a royal portrait. The traditional chappan—stripes of green, gold, and royal blue—was draped over his shoulders, and a peaked lambswool hat sat atop his head. His grayed facial hair was neatly trimmed, and through small but proud eyes, he looked outward, past the people entering the airport and toward the resurrected Kabul.

  The taxi driver asked Yusuf why he’d come back. He saw plenty of expats returning, but young men traveling alone were always here for a reason other than visiting family.

  “Do you have a business here?” he’d asked.

  “No, no business.”

  “You want to open a business?”

  “No, I’m here for a job.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer? For some foreign company?”

  “No, I’m working with an international organization that provides attorneys for Afghans. I’m here to work for the people.” Yusuf could feel the driver’s curiosity was mixed with something else—skepticism or resentment, perhaps. He knew scores of Afghans had flocked back to Kabul to take advantage of the postwar opportunities. They sold land at inflated prices, built hotels, and grabbed up foreign subcontracting opportunities. Yusuf decided to shift the conversation and asked the driver about the U.S. withdrawal.

  “Everyone leaves,” the driver said with a dismissive wave. “Why should we expect them to stay? But they’ll be back.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’re going to have bigger problems here as soon as they leave. We all know that. Sometimes you’re so worried about getting rid of the ants in your house that you don’t notice the mice lying in wait.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time for Afghans to look after our own country, though? We have to learn to stand on our own feet.”

  The driver scoffed, honking his horn as a car nearly sideswiped his vehicle. The roads were jammed with yellow station wagon cabs, Toyotas, wheelbarrows, and pedestrians. Cars were so closely packed on the street that drivers could roll down their windows and reach into the next vehicle.

  “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You don’t live here.”

  “Actually, now I do.”

  The driver reached for the gear shift and slid into neutral, letting the car drift forward. He didn’t say another word.

  Yusuf turned his attention to the streets that looked vaguely familiar. On some stretches of road, he was struck with a feeling somewhere between déjà vu and true memory. At a roundabout, Yusuf could almost feel his father’s hand holding his. The number of new buildings with shiny steel-framed construction and large glass windows surprised him. Red banners announced slashed prices on home furnishings.

  Yusuf asked to be dropped off at a hotel in the upscale part of town, where most foreign nationals stayed. The driver smirked, feeling vindicated.

  AFTER OPENING HIS BAGS AND DRINKING THE BOTTLED WATER he’d purchased in the lobby, Yusuf put his feet up and called his mother.

  “How was your flight? Have you eaten anything?” Her voice was tense with worry.

  “It was fine. Of course I’ve eaten, Madar-jan. I’m here to work, not to go on a diet.”

  “Don’t mention that word to me,” she said bitterly. “I’ve been on a diet for the last fifteen years and have gained twenty pounds.”

  “Without that diet, you might have gained thirty. Consider it a success,” Yusuf offered.

  “You can make an argument for anything, can’t you? Listen, I know you only have a few days there, so please don’t waste time. Go to your Kaka Siar’s house as soon as you can. You promised me.”

  Yusuf groaned.

  “I will! I thought you wouldn’t mind if I called you before I went looking up our old neighbors.”

  “This phone call would have been a lot more interesting if you could tell me you’d stopped by their house for a cup of tea.”

  Kaka Siar was not actually Yusuf’s uncle. He and his family had left for Iran around the same time that Yusuf’s family had gone to Pakistan. Kaka Siar had three daughters. The youngest had just turned twenty-four years old and was named Meena. As children, Yusuf had looked after Meena while their parents passed plates of food around and discussed the ongoing war—he a school-age boy and she a toddler. Over the years, he never minded her following him around. He’d always been gentle with her, in a way that made his mother and Meena’s mother smile with pride.

  Yusuf remembered when they’d left Kabul. He’d been a bit more distant from Meena that year, less interested in entertaining a six-year-old when he was eleven
and eager to enter adolescence. Still, Meena clung to him like an older brother, and he never could bear to disappoint her. He would sit, cross-legged, and tell her stories or listen to hers. The world outside their homes was harsh, and he felt a sense of duty to make her smile.

  “She’s a beautiful girl, and they’re a wonderful family.” Yusuf’s mother sighed. She’d repeated this more times than he could count in the four weeks before his departure. “All I’m asking is that you spend some time with her.”

  Yusuf’s mother would only consider his trip to Afghanistan a success if he came back engaged. That was not something he had to infer. She had stated it very clearly, especially after he’d rejected the many prospects she pointed out in their New York community. She accused Yusuf of being too picky and warned him of the dangers of procrastinating.

  “Too much makeup, too little schooling, too tall, too short. You need to spend less time finding faults in these girls and more time looking for the right one. You wait too long and there’ll be no one left to choose from.”

  But the Afghan girls in New York didn’t seem that much unlike American girls. He’d spoken to many at community events or at student associations and hadn’t found anyone who wanted anything to do with Afghanistan. Their idea of cultural identity, he gathered, was putting on a traditional Afghan dress once a year at a wedding and carrying in a tray of henna. Too often, getting to know them involved secretive phone calls and elaborately concocted stories to disguise their whereabouts from their parents, only to find that they had nothing in common.

  But Meena was a different story. He’d laughed at his mother’s suggestion the first time she’d mentioned it. She’d put her hands on her hips and sternly told him that Meena’s mother was not opposed to the idea. Meena was the right age and had recently finished college. She was taking computer classes, and they wanted to see her married to a good person. They knew Yusuf’s family and heard that Yusuf had a job as an attorney. He would be a good match for her, Meena’s parents decided and hinted as much to Yusuf’s mother.

  While homeland pulled Yusuf like a magnet, there was a quietly growing curiosity in him about Meena as well. He’d seen a picture of her and knew she was quite beautiful. But there was much he didn’t know. So many years had passed since he’d last seen her, her small arms wrapped around his neck as he knelt down to say good-bye to her. He’d wiped the tears from her cheeks, his face flushing to see her so saddened.

  “I’ll call them in the morning and stop by later in the day. Good enough?” he promised his mother, making it sound like he was only doing this to humor her.

  “Fine. Remember, you only have a few days in Kabul before you go out into the provinces. Use that time to get to know her.”

  YUSUF MADE HIS WAY TO KAKA SIAR’S HOUSE THE NEXT DAY, PASSING through swarms of grinning street children with outstretched hands and curious eyes.

  “Mister, mister . . . it’s good to give!”

  “Hello, how are you!” they called, erupting into giggles as they practiced their stiff English. Their clothes were tattered, their fingernails black half-moons. Yusuf wondered if they were orphans or the overflow of an impoverished household.

  Yusuf laughed with them, tousling one boy’s hair and giving another boy the ballpoint pen he had in his pocket.

  “Do you boys go to school?” he asked them.

  “I do!”

  “Me too!”

  They were future pilots, doctors, and professors, they promised him. They were persistent and not in the least bit shy, their confidence boosted by their collective number.

  He passed women in burqas and others in jeans, teased hair beneath their loose head scarves and platform shoes stretching their height from top and bottom. Some men were dressed in traditional tunics and pantaloons with turbans on their heads. Others wore slim denim jeans or trousers and Adidas athletic shirts. A man sat on a stool outside his shop, an arc of reed birdcages over his store’s entrance. Parakeets, finches, and canaries sat on thin perches, looking like flittering, multicolored gems.

  Kaka Siar’s family members were living in the home one of their relatives had abandoned. Their own home and the home Yusuf had grown up in had been reduced to rubble while they were away. Yusuf knocked on the front gate and waited, nervously, for someone to let him in. He carried a bag of gifts all picked out by his mother: chocolates, clothes for Kaka Siar, and bottles of perfume for his wife.

  It was Kaka Siar who opened the door, shaking his head in disbelief and pulling Yusuf into their courtyard. He’d hugged him tightly and kissed his cheeks. When he stepped back to get a better look at the boy he hadn’t seen in over twenty years, his wife, Khala Zainab, came out and hugged him, her palm stroking his cheek with a maternal touch. Yusuf bent and tried to kiss her hands, but she pulled back and tugged him into the house instead.

  “You look just like your father,” Khala Zainab said. “How are they doing? Your brother and sisters are well?”

  “Praise Allah, what a fine man you’ve become! If I’d seen you on the street, I would not have recognized you,” Kaka Siar added.

  Their two eldest daughters had married but returned to their parents’ house with their husbands and children that evening to see Yusuf. They were unrecognizable, as was Meena. Yusuf stood when she entered from outside. She’d just returned from her job—something to do with the United Nations, Yusuf’s mother had told him. She was dressed in black slacks and a long, chartreuse blouse that fell to her hips. She wore a loose, gauzy head scarf and had a warm smile.

  Something about her reminded Yusuf of Elena, but he pushed that thought aside. Meena took a seat on floor cushions between her two sisters, a one-year-old niece crawling gleefully onto her lap. Meena tickled the little girl’s stomach and she shook her head in false protest, her pigtails brushing against Meena’s lowered face.

  She was lovely, Yusuf admitted, and reminded himself not to stare. He was returning as a family friend and not officially courting her, but the presence of two single people of the same age filled the room with tension. He wished his parents could be here to diffuse the attention. Instead, all eyes and questions were directed to him. A few times during the evening, he caught Meena looking at him, but as soon as he noticed, she would tuck her hair behind her ear and look for a niece or nephew to hold her attention.

  They were like two horses with blinders on, standing side by side and pretending not to be aware the other existed. But how was Yusuf going to get to know her if they never spoke? Was he expected to reach some conclusion about the rest of their lives just by eating in the same room?

  Meena’s older sisters inquired about his own. Though they were closer in age to Yusuf, the presence of children on their laps and husbands at their sides extinguished any impropriety. They could ask questions and joke with him and made a point to do so, obviously hoping to elicit information on their younger sister’s behalf.

  What does your sister’s husband do? Do they live near your parents? And your sisters, what did they study in college?

  Yusuf’s mother would have been proud to hear him describe how his sister had married a banker and they’d chosen to live close to home. He left out that it was the rent-controlled apartment that kept her and her husband in the same building as his parents. With a baby coming, they couldn’t afford to think about moving. His other sister was studying accounting, he told them. He neglected to mention that she had finished in five semesters what others had finished in three and worked part-time as a makeup artist in a department store. For his brother, Yusuf focused on the credentials of the restaurant he managed. It was booked to capacity nearly every night and highly rated.

  Kaka Siar nodded in approval. Khala Zainab smiled encouragingly. They were already imagining what their home would feel like without their youngest daughter, picturing her making her way to the United States and being welcomed by Yusuf’s parents.

  Yusuf attempted to help clear the dinner dishes and take them into the kitchen. He’d been hoping for a chan
ce to interact with Meena in a more casual setting, but Kaka Siar raised a hand and shook his head.

  “You are our guest,” he said with a gentle smile. “You’ve come all this way after all these years, and in a few days you’ll be headed out of the city to do some good work. Let’s not be worried about a few dishes.”

  It was true. Yusuf had only four more days in Kabul before he would be reporting for duty. He was eager to start working.

  Energetic as he wanted to feel, jet lag was creeping in, and Yusuf’s eyelids were growing heavy. He bit his tongue to stifle the yawns and, not wanting to be impolite, waited until after the fruit and sweets had been served to excuse himself for the evening.

  “How many days do you have here? You’ll have to come back.” Khala Zainab rested a hand on his forearm as he stood at the door.

  He hoped he did not imagine the look of disappointment on Meena’s face to see him leave.

  CHAPTER 6

  THREE POLICE OFFICERS HAD ASSISTED HAKIMI IN ARRESTING Zeba. Those men had been gruff, shoving her into their vehicle for transport to the prison located in the capital of their province. They’d been sad to see her go, knowing true justice would have been served if everyone had simply let Fareed finish what he’d started. Instead, Hakimi had ordered the villagers to pry Kamal’s cousin off Zeba, leaving her crumpled on the ground gasping for air. Her children had screamed and shouted, certain they were about to lose a second parent that day.

  Once they’d arrived at Chil Mahtab, the officers had turned her over to the prison guards, spitting on the ground as she was led away. Zeba moved through the hallways, her elbow held by a female prison guard, Asma, whose henna-stained red hair was pulled tightly into a low ponytail that made her look stern and decidedly unfriendly. Still, she was a fairy godmother compared to the male officers who’d just left, and Zeba felt her breathing ease.

  Asma’s overgrown bangs half hid a lazy eye. Her other eye flitted from the open doors of the prison cells to the ugly ring of bruises around the new prisoner’s neck. They moved through the wide, tiled corridor. Asma, like most of the guards, treated the incarcerated women decently. There were no smiles or pleasantries exchanged, but nor were there blows or menacing looks.