A House Without Windows

by Nadia Hashimi

  “How did Zeba feel about the marriage? She must have been young.”

  “She was seventeen and ready to live her life. She was less of a child than others her age . . . probably because she’d lost her father.”

  “So she was content.”

  “As content as any new bride can be.” Gulnaz drifted briefly to the first weeks of her own marriage to Zeba’s father. Her new husband had showered her with gifts and gazed at her in such a way that, even in the privacy of their home, she used her head scarf to cover the flush in her cheeks. Gulnaz had begun to warm to him when the comments began. Her husband had gushed about her so often with his family that, drop by drop, he’d created a river of jealousy toward her.

  “We thought Kamal was a decent man. Zeba did not complain to me, but I did not see her much. When they were first married, she lived with his family. I did not want to interfere, and Kamal kept to himself. He didn’t want anything to do with his wife’s family. He and my son, Rafi, never had much of anything to say to each other.”

  “But Zeba and Kamal moved away from his family at some point. When did that happen?”

  “They moved after the second child was born. Little Girl, at least that’s what they called her at the time.”

  “Was there a reason they moved?”

  Gulnaz shook her head.

  “If there was, I don’t know it. No one knew anything about him. He couldn’t be trusted—that was all I knew.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “One time Kamal brought Zeba and the children over on their way to visit one of his cousins. I’d made mushroom stew, a recipe I learned from my own mother, God rest her soul. I’d also made rice and meatballs. Rafi’s wife, Shokria, had just given birth and was in her resting period. She needed to eat well so I’d been cooking fresh food all day. Kamal sat back and didn’t touch a bite of it. He sniffed at the spread and turned up his nose. Everyone else was starving, especially the children. We begged him to try at least a little, that it wouldn’t feel right for us to eat if he didn’t join us. It was the rudest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Perhaps he had just eaten,” Yusuf agreed, not sure what the point of this story was.

  Gulnaz stared off into the distance.

  “Then, exactly two months later, we were invited to the wedding of Kamal’s sister. It was a summer evening, hot and dry. Kamal nodded at me and barely acknowledged Rafi. Rafi went out of his way to strike up a conversation with Kamal, as a brother-in-law should. ‘Come visit us again. We don’t see you often enough.’ Rafi is that way. He wouldn’t turn the devil away if he came knocking on our door.”

  “What did Kamal say?”

  “He said he wouldn’t step foot in a house that had treated him like a dog. He said we’d disrespected him by eating in front of him and offering him nothing. Before we could argue, he had shoved Zeba to get her away from us. Half his family heard what he’d said. We left. There was no reason for us to stay after that.” Gulnaz’s face betrayed no emotion.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, Khanum, but it’s a big jump to get from there to a reason for his murder.”

  Gulnaz let her eyes close for a second.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she agreed softly. “And maybe you’ve got a lot more investigating to do.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE QAZI HAD AGREED TO SEE GULNAZ, A HIGHLY UNUSUAL turn of events, but Gulnaz had expected nothing less. The judge had shown great restraint when Yusuf made the request, careful not to let his face twitch at the mention of Safatullah’s daughter. Safatullah’s daughter—meaning the woman that young lawyer had brought into his office was Safatullah’s granddaughter. It was the murshid’s granddaughter who’d been dragged out, screaming and limp, by the guards.

  Unimaginable.

  Qazi Najeeb shook his head to think of what his elders would have said about such a scene, but the elders from their village were long dead.

  The qazi hadn’t seen Zeba since that episode, and he was, truthfully, not anxious to summon her back.

  When the guards led Gulnaz into his office, Qazi Najeeb stood instinctively. He was unaccustomed to having women ask for an audience with him, much less one like Gulnaz. She’d been a near legend in their town even as a young woman. There were rumors of her powers, too, that she could cast spells and sway minds with a mere glance. Najeeb remembered the women in his family talking about her when she was only an adolescent.

  Qazi Najeeb had seen Gulnaz only once. He’d gone to the home of Safatullah with his father, who needed the murshid’s prayers for his ailing youngest son. Najeeb was intrigued by the prospect of seeing Gulnaz, the girl who made all the other girls pout with envy. It was Najeeb who had knocked on the plank door of their compound, his father’s arms heavy with warm rosewater cake, homemade cheese, and freshly picked tomatoes.

  Two young boys had answered the door, unloading the gifts from his father’s arms and leading them both into the expansive courtyard, meticulously kept with fruit trees and flowering bushes. The murshid’s home was made of the same materials as every other home in town, but it was somehow different. The wooden beams looked sturdier, the plaster smoother, the glass windows more crystalline. Najeeb’s father shot him a look that told him to take heed; the aesthetics of the home were a validation of sorts. If anyone could help the ailing boy they’d left back home, it was the man who lived within these blessed walls.

  Najeeb followed the young boy who led them to the murshid’s living room, a simple chamber with sitting cushions on opposite ends and an intricate burgundy carpet on the floor, octagonal elephants’ feet patterned into the weave in white and black knots. The murshid sat on a floor cushion, positioned such that, through the room’s only window, a soft beam of sunlight fell directly upon him, illuminating his face and leaving his guests in relative darkness. There were glass bowls of golden raisins, walnuts, and pine nuts on the floor—set just out of reach of the guests. Najeeb and his father greeted the murshid, bowing their heads and kissing his hand. Safatullah was gracious. He touched his hand to his own chest and kissed the top of Najeeb’s head.

  Najeeb’s father made his pleas. He explained the situation at home and described his youngest son’s belly pains and fevered restlessness. The murshid listened patiently, then nodded his head and thanked them for bringing such generous gifts.

  “Your tomatoes are the only ones to have survived this dry weather,” Safatullah commented. “That you’ve shared them with my family is evidence of your generous spirit.”

  Najeeb and his father wondered how the murshid knew they’d brought tomatoes since they’d given the basket to the young boy at the front door, but it was a question that would go unanswered.

  The murshid cleared his throat and, motioning for Najeeb and his father to join him, raised his hands in a prayer. The tenor and vibrato in his supplications was artful—his voice was calligraphy. Najeeb watched his father’s face, eyes pinched closed and forehead wrinkled in concentration. His head bobbed rhythmically from side to side, as did his body in a sway that matched the rhythm of the murshid’s prayers.

  Najeeb watched, his head lowered just enough to appear deferential.

  The murshid prayed with head bowed as well, and the words rolled off his tongue as if he’d said them a thousand times before.

  Najeeb lifted his head an inch.

  The murshid scratched his ear furiously and scowled. In a second, he was back to his graceful swaying.

  It was nothing. Najeeb should not have seen it. But he had. His illustrious words had been interrupted by something as banal as an itch. How much could he revere a man who itched and scratched as the rest of the world did?

  He followed his father out of the murshid’s sitting room, an obsequious back-stepping with lowered heads and shoulders and hands splayed across chests.

  “Thank you for your time, Agha Safatullah. Your kindness is much appreciated.”

  “I will continue to pray for your son. Inshallah, he will recover soo
n and grow to be as strong and healthy as the boy who has accompanied you today.”

  They were escorted back to the front door and had nearly left when Najeeb realized he’d dropped his hat somewhere between the front door and Safatullah’s receiving room. He raced back into the compound while his father waited outside. As he turned the corner around one of the smaller houses, he nearly ran straight into a young woman. He’d been within an inch of her face before he backed up, startled.

  Had her eyes not met his and rendered him speechless, he would have politely apologized for nearly knocking her over.

  What color is that? So purely green, the very color of Islam, and yet something about them seems perilously unholy. What is it like to see the world through eyes like those?

  This was Gulnaz, he knew, by the quickening in his heart. She took a step back but did not look away from him.

  Najeeb drew a breath.

  “You were here to pray for your brother,” she said softly.

  He wanted so badly to answer her, but his tongue had suddenly been replaced by a brick. He nodded.

  “I will pray for him, too. I always pray for the young and innocent. I will pray that he lives a long and fruitful life.”

  Gulnaz slipped away without waiting for a response.

  Najeeb left the compound without his hat. His brother recovered in three days, regaining his strength and appetite. His father praised the murshid’s prayers. Najeeb bit his tongue then and again six months later when his sisters brought news of Gulnaz’s engagement. He would not see Gulnaz again until a lifetime later, when she appeared in his office and he stood before her, a grayed but important man.

  DOES SHE REMEMBER ME? WOULD IT BE TOO PRESUMPTIVE OF ME TO think she might?

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Gulnaz said. Her tone was perfunctory. There was no room for reminiscing or wistfulness.

  “I don’t usually speak privately with mothers of the accused.” This was only partly true and came out sounding much more scandalous than Qazi Najeeb had meant it to. The judge took his seat as Gulnaz took hers. He poured a cup of tea and placed it on the nesting table before her. “I cannot offer you anything much. A judge’s quarters are not known for their lavishness.”

  “That depends on the judge,” Gulnaz said, plopping a sugar cube into her cup and watching it sink to the bottom. Qazi Najeeb stared at her downcast eyes, the graceful arches of her cheekbones.

  Dear God, he thought. Now, that’s how a woman should age.

  “Very true,” he agreed. “You did not bring Yusuf with you. Why?”

  “He had his turn to speak with you. This is mine.”

  “I see,” the judge nodded.

  “Qazi-sahib,” she began. “I am here because of my daughter. You are the judge presiding over her case. Since I’m the one who gave her her first breath, I thought it only fitting I should speak with the man who might sentence her to death. You and I share a connection, in that respect, that is undeniable. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Qazi Najeeb’s eyebrows pulled together in surprise.

  “Well, indeed, though that is certainly an odd way of looking at the situation.”

  “It’s an odd situation to look at.”

  “Well, not as much as you would think. She’s not the only woman in Chil Mahtab to have killed her husband. Men have to watch their backs these days.”

  “How awful,” Gulnaz said glibly.

  The judge leaned back, preoccupied with thoughts of long ago.

  Did you save my brother’s life? Because I think you did. Oh, I’ve been wanting to ask this question for years.

  “Qazi-sahib.”

  “Yes?” Najeeb cleared his throat and took a sip from his teacup. He heard she’d been widowed while her children were still young and wondered what had happened to her husband.

  “As I was saying, my daughter is not a murderer. I’m asking that you show mercy on her. She is a pious woman and a devoted mother. Her children need her.”

  “Did she kill him?”

  Gulnaz blinked twice. Slow, deliberate blinks meant to give him time to regret his question.

  “Okay, a simpler question. I notice that you said nothing about what kind of wife she was. Was she a good wife to him?”

  A man would ask such a stupid question, thought Gulnaz.

  “I’m her mother, Qazi-sahib. What makes you think my answer to that question would be at all useful to you? I was not there to see what happened. And if I had been, for the sake of this discussion, and I had seen Zeba kill her husband with her own hands, I’m only one woman. As far as I know, there isn’t another woman who will come forward and complete my testimony.”

  It was true, and the judge nodded in agreement. A woman’s account carried only half the weight of that of a man’s. That was not his decision. It was how they’d always measured a woman’s word.

  “A moot point, Khanum, as I know you were not there at the time her husband was killed.”

  “Nor was anyone else, though the world is ready to condemn her.”

  “We have to look at the situation. She was at the house with him and was found with blood on her hands and clothes.”

  “He was her husband. She could have held him as he died.”

  “Which still leaves the question of who killed him.”

  “I can tell you one thing, Qazi Najeeb, since you are a God-fearing person. If you’d known the man, you might have killed him yourself.”

  “Why?” Qazi Najeeb leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”

  Gulnaz shook her head.

  “My daughter had not been well in the months before her husband died. I’d been to see her a few times, but she would barely open the door for me.”

  “For her own mother?”

  “The truth is, Qazi Najeeb, that while tradition states a woman’s word is only worth half a man’s, a mother’s word is the full story. I am telling you that Zeba was deeply troubled, and that man had everything to do with it.”

  “What do you think is wrong with her?”

  “It is hard to say. But I am afraid that he may have caused her to be unwell in her mind.”

  “I see,” the judge said, leaning back in his seat. “A deranged woman kills her husband? Is that what you think happened?”

  “I don’t think she killed him, nor did I say that. I want for her situation to be investigated. I ask that you take into consideration what kind of husband he was to her. I can tell you I did not see her often, but when I did, I could tell she feared for her life.”

  Najeeb nodded.

  “How about some more tea?” he suggested, pointing to the nickel-plated kettle on the red-coiled electric burner beside his chair.

  Gulnaz laid her hand over her untouched cup.

  There was a pause. Each waited for the other to speak.

  It was Qazi Najeeb who broke the silence. His wife would have cursed him if she’d been here to see the way he behaved. At this age, it was admittedly shameful.

  “Any information we receive will be discussed when the trial comes together formally. But even if he’d raised his hand against his wife, that still doesn’t justify murdering him and her village knows that. Those people, her neighbors and Kamal’s family, are surely anxious to see a verdict.”

  “Of course they are. The man’s body may be cold and buried, but his family is alive and well. I’m sure they’re filling my grandchildren’s heads with hateful lies.”

  “Khanum, I may be nothing but a man in your eyes, but I know a few truths, too, and here’s one I will share with you: children always forgive their mothers. That’s the way God’s designed them. He gives them two arms, two legs, and a heart that will cry ‘mother’ until the day it stops beating. Your daughter can grow horns on her head, but her children will think it’s a crown.”

  Gulnaz looked at the judge; her skin prickled. What did he know of forgiveness? She remembered Zeba’s face, meshed by prison fencing. She thought of the way her fingers had reached through the metal rings
to touch Gulnaz. Was that forgiveness or desperation? Had she sought her mother’s touch only because she was in Chil Mahtab?

  “With all due respect, Qazi, plenty of children are born without arms or legs.”

  The judge chuckled.

  “Very true. But none are born without a heart. I stand by what I’ve said. A mother is a mother until the very end.”

  Gulnaz straightened her back. She hadn’t noticed that a half-raised nail in the chair was digging into her leg. She shifted, but it seemed to follow her.

  When Gulnaz stood to leave, Najeeb told himself to look away as she turned toward the door. He was acting like a schoolboy. Then again, he hadn’t asked her to saunter into his office asking him for private favors. What kind of women dared be so bold, anyway?

  “Khanum Gulnaz,” he began, feeling as if the boundaries of propriety had already been blurred. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. I’m glad you asked your lawyer to arrange for this.”

  Gulnaz looked at him, the same fearless stare that she’d given him when they’d been face-to-face in Safatullah’s decorated courtyard.

  “I came for the sake of justice,” Gulnaz explained pointedly. “True justice, which is as rare as a seashell in this country. I can only hope you’ll come to see that she’s not responsible for Kamal’s death, just as she was not responsible for his life.”

  She was on her feet, her back to him. It was the end of their conversation. Najeeb felt his chest tighten to think that this very moment she would walk out of his office and never return. What did she think of him? He still couldn’t tell by the way she spoke.

  Gulnaz paused, her hand resting on the door frame. Her finger tapped once, twice before she turned around and asked one more casual question.

  “By the way, Qazi-sahib. It would be rude of me to leave without asking. How is your younger brother doing these days?”

  CHAPTER 23

  WHEN BASIR WAS TEN YEARS OLD, HE MADE AN IMPORTANT discovery—the adults he’d always trusted could lie. In fact, it was not as much of a possibility as it was a proclivity. They were just as dishonest about small, insignificant details as they were about life-changing truths. When Basir detected the first lie, he vowed to keep his eyes open for a second. By the time he noticed the third and fourth deceit, he decided it was impossible to trust much of anything that came out of the mouths of adults.