A House Without Windows

by Nadia Hashimi

  “Well?”

  Zeba looked at the cloudless night sky. Where could she turn for answers?

  “Bachem, our family has been torn apart. Never have I wanted to do anything that would hurt you or your sisters.”

  If Basir was breathing, Zeba could not see it. He sat perfectly still, his gaze focused on the dark space between his crossed legs.

  “That day . . . that day was terrible for all of us. I don’t know why we’ve been struck like this, but we all know that fate is decided by God.”

  “Are you going to answer my question or are you going to keep talking shit?”

  “Basir!” Zeba shot back. He had never cursed in her presence before.

  “I came here to ask you what happened. Are you going to tell me or not? Because if you’re not, then I’ll just have to guess for myself.”

  “Basir. Janem, there are some things that are between adults and I don’t want to—”

  “This wasn’t just between adults, Madar.”

  Zeba’s back straightened sharply.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This wasn’t between adults. I saw him. I saw what . . . what . . . what had happened to him. He wasn’t some stranger. I washed the blood off his body and wrapped him in a white sheet. I buried my father, and now I listen to my sisters cry at night. Whatever happened, it happened to all of us, so please don’t tell me that this is between adults.”

  He was right. He deserved to know, but Zeba had wrestled with what might happen to him if he heard the truth. Would he try to find out who the girl was? Would he think his mother was a liar and despise her even more? Would he be so ashamed of his father that he could never recover? Or would he slip and tell someone else about the shame that had been perpetrated in their own home? He had the anger of a man but not the understanding or judgment of one.

  How much easier this would be if she were as starkly mad as her neighbors!

  Her heart pounded. In a moment, she would either tell Basir everything or nothing. And in a moment he would either hate her or cry for her.

  Had the mountain grown since she’d last looked at it? It seemed to stand taller in the backdrop, as if it were inching its way toward the moon.

  The song returned.

  Tonight, you will listen to the sorrows of my soul. Though tomorrow, you will forget all that has been told.

  Zeba heard the faint roll of a tabla drum in the night, its unblinking eye gawking at her. The funereal whine of the harmonium followed, and a puff of stale air tickled Zeba’s face.

  Then came the crash of the daira and a chorus of applause.

  If she lost her son, her children, she would have nothing. Had she loved them enough to survive this? Her son sat poised, looking at her as if she were a scorpion about to strike. The babies she’d mourned told her they’d had enough of her tears. Her daughters’ hurt eyes bored into her, telling her that she’d built that house of sin, that she was just as vile as Kamal.

  “Are you going to answer me?” Basir asked.

  He deserved better. He was a good son.

  Zeba filled her lungs with the hot, night air and made a decision she was certain she would regret.

  CHAPTER 35

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK,” HAKIMI SAID. HE WAS TRULY baffled. The man before him was the fifth person to come in for the same reason. And since when did people feel it necessary to report a neighbor’s crazy behavior? His own neighbor kept no fewer than twenty-five gray pigeons on his roof and had named each and every one. Hakimi had argued with him that it was impossible to tell one bird from another but the man insisted that he could recognize them just as well as Hakimi could recognize his children.

  “It’s the truth,” the man said, rubbing his hands together and shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time and I didn’t want to intrude into a family’s private life. But now . . .”

  “Yes, what makes you come here now to tell me this?” Hakimi asked, leaning across his desk to hear the man’s response.

  “Well, now, it’s that so many things have been said and I’m not sure what’s true. I know the judge will want to know everything about her before he makes a decision, I suppose. Yes, and if he wants to make a decision, then he can only do that if he knows what I’ve seen.”

  “Fine. Tell me what you’ve seen. I don’t know how much the qazi is going to care, but you can start by telling me. We’ll go from there.”

  Hakimi pulled out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. He scribbled in the corner of the page, which produced only inkless depressions. He made an O with his lips and stuck the pen into the hollow of his mouth. He huffed hot air onto its tip, then licked it with the tip of his tongue before touching it to the page again. This time his scribble was visible, a reluctant, incomplete twirl of blue.

  He turned to a fresh page. He’d kept a file of the other reports he’d recorded. Whether the judge would consider them in Zeba’s defense or toss them aside without reading was impossible to say. Hakimi didn’t really care either way. It felt good to be doing this, as if he were gathering evidence of his authority in this town instead of evidence related to the case.

  “Now, tell me what it is you saw.”

  “I . . . er . . . I didn’t know her name. We’re not related to the family, of course. But they lived close enough that I’d seen the wife a few times. I can’t recall what day it was, but there was a day when I was going to work and just as I stepped out into the street, I heard a noise. I turned around and there she was. Her head scarf had fallen away from her face so I could see who she was. As soon as she saw me she pulled it back over and looked away.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “She . . . she was digging behind the door of a neighbor’s house—with her fingers. It was like . . . it was like something really important to her was buried there. She looked like she wanted to get to it really fast.”

  “Bizarre. Did she say anything to you?”

  “No, she didn’t. She just . . . she just looked at me the way a stray dog looks at a gang of schoolboys. She looked ready to claw at me if I got close to her. I didn’t.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Hakimi nodded. “Did you stay to watch her or did you leave her there?”

  “I stayed for a bit. I mean, I actually asked her what she was doing and if she was all right. She looked wild . . . not like a right person. She was digging at the earth with her fingers. When she didn’t respond to me, I asked her if her husband knew where she was. I assumed she had a family.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She . . . uh . . . she didn’t say much of anything. She just stuffed a handful of dirt into her mouth and ran off like she’d stolen something.”

  “She stuffed dirt in her mouth?” Hakimi repeated incredulously. If only every day were like this. If only he could wake every morning to record crazy stories about people in his village, putting ink to the page to turn hearsay into official evidence. It was a powerful feeling, just as good as the glint of his badge or the weight of his pistol. “She didn’t just wipe her mouth with a dirty hand?”

  “No, no. She took a mouthful as if it were . . . as if it were rice.”

  Hakimi eyes widened with interest.

  “That is very concerning behavior. And you watched her run off?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Which direction did she run in?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Hakimi inhaled through pursed lips. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against the page.

  “Well, if you don’t remember, then I don’t know if I can . . .”

  “Ah yes, she ran toward the shoemaker’s shop and away from the school. I remember now because I was going to work and had to pass the school.”

  “I see,” Hakimi said slowly, as if this detail changed everything. He added a line to the record, his penmanship meticulous. He hadn’t quite graduated from high school but there were other ways, he’d realized, to feel like a learned m
an. He took pride in these details. One could tell by the way he shined his own shoes, not trusting his children to do a good enough job. It was a task beneath most men with any kind of position, but Hakimi believed the end result would more than make up for that.

  “I’ll be sharing this information with the judge,” he said. “Now, unless you have something else that you haven’t yet mentioned . . .”

  “No, that’s all that I know. Just that she was definitely an afflicted person in the mind. And that was at least a couple of weeks before the man was killed.”

  “Understood. Well, thank you for coming in—” Hakimi said, ripping the page off the notepad and paper-clipping it to a stack of similar sheets.

  “Sahib, if I could ask one question—out of curiosity. Have you had others comment about that woman’s husband? I didn’t know him really.”

  “You mean the murdered man? God rest his soul. No, no one seems to have anything to say about him—not that I’ve been asking. If there’s one thing that’s clear in this case, it’s that he was the victim.”

  “Of course,” Timur mumbled and before he could second-guess himself, he went on talking. It was unplanned and risky, but he was like a shaken soda bottle. In a small way, this was the moment he was uncapped. “But I’m surprised you didn’t hear the rumors about him.”

  “Rumors? What rumors?” Hakimi said, with one eye squinted.

  “I probably shouldn’t say anything. I didn’t witness it myself, but I heard from others. This was a few months ago, and it was so terrible that I didn’t want to believe it myself.”

  “Tell me what you heard. It’s my job to sift truth from rumor.”

  Timur said nothing, knowing Hakimi wasn’t capable of sifting rubies from desert sand.

  “It was an ugly thing that I heard, so terrible that it hurts me to even repeat it.”

  “Out with it, brother. I do have other work to do.” Hakimi was growing impatient.

  “Of course. It was pretty well known that he was a man of sin and that he had, in a rage, set a page of the Holy Qur’an on fire.”

  Hakimi abruptly sat up in his chair, both palms pressing onto the desk. This was shocking news, even if it were only a rumor.

  “Set it on fire? God forbid! Why would he do such a thing?”

  Timur shook his head. His palms were moist. He rubbed them on his pantaloons out of Hakimi’s view.

  “I have no idea. As a man who loves the Qur’an with all his heart, I can’t imagine what would bring a man to do something so ghastly. I told you it was bad.”

  “Bad? This is well beyond bad. This is the highest form of blasphemy! And he’s not even alive for us to inquire about this or to punish him. What am I supposed to do with this information? Who can confirm this?”

  “I . . . I don’t know who can confirm it. As I said, it was about four months ago in the market and I cannot recall who I heard this from, though I do believe it was more than one person who shared this story with me. I went home that day having forgotten what I’d gone to purchase—that’s how upset I was by what I’d heard.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Hakimi had his elbows on the desk now. He was fidgeting, his arms and legs trying to find a position that made sense when the information didn’t. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Did his wife know about this?”

  “His wife?” Timur shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. I suppose she could have known. She might have even seen him do it. How disgraceful it must have been for her and her children. For their sake, I’m glad the whole town didn’t hear about it.”

  “This is bad. This is very bad.”

  Such blasphemy was not tolerated in Afghanistan. Both men were thinking of the young woman who had, only eighteen months prior, been accused of setting aflame a page of the Qur’an in a Kabul mosque. A single accusing finger had ignited a frenzied mob of mostly men, who viciously attacked her with beams of wood, rocks the size of watermelons, and angry boots. They drove a car over her body before throwing her into a dry riverbed and torching her remains. Immediately after, an investigation was launched. The purpose of the investigation—to determine whether the woman had indeed burned a page of the holy book.

  The accusation proved to be a false one and the men who were arrested and convicted of murder were, over months, quietly released or had their sentences dramatically reduced. The results were clear. There was excusability for those who took on blasphemers and defended the Qur’an. Was it possible that Zeba had been angered by her husband’s actions? Hakimi had heard much about Kamal’s love for the drink. It wasn’t that common in their town, but a few men had fallen for the bottle. It was a sin, no doubt, but one that paled in comparison to this new accusation. What kind of man had Kamal really been?

  “This is terrible news. I understand your hesitation in coming forward with this. I don’t think we should say a word about it to anyone else, though. It could make a lot of people angry, including the family of the deceased.”

  Timur shifted in his chair.

  “I wouldn’t want to upset them further, but don’t you think that the judge should know? It’s possible his wife . . . I mean, I can’t say for sure, but isn’t it possible that she knew about this and . . .”

  “Possible, yes. But let’s leave her fate to the court.” This was more than Hakimi wanted to handle. He shook his head, reassuring himself that he was making the right decision. “We cannot risk the reaction to this rumor. And it is only a rumor, right?”

  “I suppose it is only a rumor. Though I heard it from more than one person.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Of course I did,” Timur said through a parched mouth. “I’m sorry. I just find it hard to let something like this be—as a Muslim. I felt like I had a duty to say something. Someone who stands up against a crime so terrible should be respected in this life as well as the next, I think.”

  Hakimi said nothing. He contemplated Timur’s words. “I . . . I understand completely. I feel the same responsibility. I suppose I could get a message to the judge quietly.”

  “I leave it to your judgment,” Timur said deferentially. “I’m thankful the responsibility for this doesn’t rest on my shoulders.”

  Hakimi let out a sigh and glanced around the small police station under his watch. It was true, he thought, that no one in this town fully understood the burden of his position.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time, Hakimi-sahib. But I do have a question if you don’t mind. What about the woman . . . his wife. Have others mentioned noticing any odd behavior? I was just wondering if I was the only one who’d seen it.”

  “Not at all,” Hakimi chuckled, relieved to have moved on to lighter details. “You’re the fifth person to come forward in the last week. I suppose it all makes sense. The woman must have been a lunatic to drive a hatchet into her husband’s head. The poor guy, Allah rest his soul. I wonder if he knew what kind of crazy his wife was or if she just snuck up on him. Women are odd creatures, you know. Awfully good at hiding things. You just never know what they’ve got tucked in the folds of their skirts. That’s what my father told me.”

  Timur smiled politely, relieved to hear others had come forward before him, just as Walid had promised.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding in agreement as he pushed his chair back and pulled down the ends of his linen vest. This would be the first good piece of news to cross their threshold in a long time. That they’d survived this long after what had happened to Laylee was all because Zeba had kept Laylee’s secret. Nargis reminded Timur each time he’d changed his mind about coming forward with this story about seeing Zeba eat dirt. “They certainly are surprising creatures.”

  Timur’s heart pounded as he walked home, unsure if there was wisdom in heeding the entreaties of a broken girl and her mother.

  CHAPTER 36

  “ZEBA! ZEBA!”

  It was a trick of slumber, she thought, to hear her mother calling her in this place. Her head felt lighter than it had the first few nig
hts.

  “I’m looking for my daughter!”

  Zeba sat up with a gasp. She looked down and realized a small, round pillow had been tucked under her head. Had the mullah placed it there while she slept? She shuddered to think his hands had lifted her head to slide it beneath her. How could she not have waken to the touch of a stranger?

  “Is there anyone here?”

  Zeba crawled to the mouth of her cell no differently, she thought briefly, than the way Rima would crawl to her.

  “Here! I’m here, Madar!” she shouted timidly. It was the first time she’d raised her voice above a whisper in this cell. She knew the others would be riled to hear her, a woman, but to answer her mother’s call was an irresistible instinct.

  “Zeba? Is that you?”

  Zeba craned her neck past the lip of her cell. There were two men in the center yard looking curiously toward the shrine and the mullah’s quarters. Local devotees would go directly to the shrine, steering clear of the valley of the insane.

  Zeba waved her arm, squinting against the sunlight that stung her retinas.

  “Here! Madar-jan, I’m here!”

  By the shift in her mother’s posture, she could see that she’d caught her attention. Her mother started toward her with a brisk pace. When the voices began to call out, Zeba’s stomach reeled.

  “Madar? Is that you, Madar?” shouted one wisp of a man. His voice cracked as he yelled toward Gulnaz. “Have you come for me after all this time?”

  “She’s not just your mother. She’s here for all of us. She’s come to take care of us,” cried another man in joy.

  “Fools!” called a third morosely. “A desperate man can see the ocean in the desert.”

  Gulnaz ignored them all and stayed clear of their cells, her face stern as she neared the last vault—the one that contained her daughter.

  “Who are these women?” A chain rattled, but the moan remained faceless.

  Zeba saw the mullah burst through the doors of his quarters with his son at his side. Though she couldn’t make out the expression on his face, he looked flummoxed. He nudged the boy back into the building and watched without moving, as if an invisible chain tethered him to his house.