“You boys are young. Do you know what happens when you get old like me? You sleep more, you eat less, you choose your fights carefully, and you think about what people will say at your funeral. I want my time to leave a mark. Remember the shrine? Hazrat Rahman—that man left his mark and people are still thinking of his wisdom and praying over his tomb. I’m not asking for a shrine,” he said with a fleeting smile. “But I want to leave something people will remember.”
“Qazi-sahib, what exactly are you proposing?” asked Yusuf cautiously.
“We can make sure this case is handled better than the one in Kabul was—even if they are the capital. You know what they did in that case? When they vacated the convictions for some and lessened the sentences on others, they did not consult with the prosecution, nor did they notify the victim’s family. People noticed. People talked. I am not going to be that judge. If people notice or talk about me, I want it to be for good reason.”
“Okay, but if that’s the case,” Yusuf reasoned slowly, “then it would be best to remove Khanum Zeba from the shrine. If we want this case to set a good precedent, we can’t have our defendant starving in a thousand-year-old shrine. I’ve talked to the head of the local hospital, Qazi-sahib, and that’s not the way mental illness is handled here.”
The prosecutor nodded in rare agreement. Qazi Najeeb uncrossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. He thumbed through his prayer beads, getting halfway through the loop before addressing Yusuf’s argument.
“I know. Gentlemen, neither of you have seen the things I’ve seen—especially in the last twenty years. My job is not an easy one. I’m supposed to balance tradition against progress in a place where people are suspicious of everything. We hate things staying the same as much as we hate things changing. You know what the real problem with corruption is? It’s not the money that it costs to have your way. You can treat that as a living expense. The problem is that we’re all puppets. We all have strings on our heads and arms and someone else pulls them: the Russians, the Americans, the warlords, the mullahs, the Taliban. Who isn’t working for someone? You, Yusuf, you’ll be called the American spy, sent here to corrupt us with the laws of the West. They’ve stayed too long. They pulled out too early. They killed innocent people. They got rid of the Taliban. The entire mission was in vain. We people are not of one heart.”
“Your Honor, I respectfully disagree,” said Yusuf. “I’m not anyone’s puppet and I don’t think my colleague here is either. I think there are plenty of people working for the good of the country and our countrymen. I think we do all want the same things.”
“At the end of the day, Yusuf, no one will trust you. They barely trust me. If you don’t see that now, you’ll see it soon.”
Yusuf sighed deeply. The judge was right and he knew it. He’d seen it in the way the prison guards had looked at him, the way the villagers had refused to open their doors more than a sliver, and the way the taxi driver kept looking up into his rearview mirror.
“Yusuf, go to the shrine, get Zeba, and bring her back to Chil Mahtab. Get an idea of how she’s doing now.” The fan had stopped oscillating. Trapped in one position, it clicked and buzzed in vain, barely ruffling the pages of Yusuf’s notepad. The judge didn’t seem to notice. “I’m going to spend some time thinking about this, and then I’ll talk once more with Hakimi to see if anything new has come up in the village.”
Yusuf left the judge’s office and headed directly to the bathroom. He wet a paper towel and wiped down his face and neck. He dug into his bag and found the bottle of eyedrops, shook it, and leaned his head back to catch the drops in between his lids. He blinked rapidly, feeling the coolness move from his lashes to his cheeks like tears.
CHAPTER 40
GULNAZ WATCHED FROM A DISTANCE, WISHING SHE COULD SEE through the outer walls of the house. There was no way of knowing who was home. The apprehension she felt had sharpened considerably during the taxi ride coming over.
She closed her eyes and pictured her grandson, her granddaughters. Basir bore an uncanny resemblance to his uncle, Rafi. When he’d been a baby, Gulnaz had often slipped and called him by her son’s name. It was, she knew, her heart’s urge to return to the days when she could wrap her arms around a child and breathe in the scent of his sun-warmed hair or feel him fitting himself perfectly into the curves of her body. Rafi’s children were blessings, but they pulled away from her quickly. Gulnaz knew it was their mother’s doing. Shokria tolerated her presence and acted as the dutiful daughter-in-law but they’d never had the closeness Gulnaz had craved. Shokria knew she could never replace Zeba, and Gulnaz kept her daughter-in-law at arm’s length, as if it would be a betrayal to her own daughter to do anything else.
There was no alchemy that could change the past. There were only the days ahead, be they few or many. There was only the chance that an ember could be recovered from the ashes and breathed back to life. That was why Gulnaz stood in front of Tamina’s house and tried to will the door to open. She would have waited longer, but the sun was beating down on her and it was unbecoming for a woman her age to loiter in an unknown neighborhood.
Gulnaz moved toward the house, planning her words with each step. She knocked on the gate and moved back, adjusting her head scarf and straightening her back. She wiped the moisture from her upper lip with a handkerchief and put it back in the black handbag hooked on her elbow.
She heard a flurry of footsteps and shouts. Never, in all the times she’d knocked on her daughter’s door, had she heard the excitement of childhood—a certain sign that Zeba, Basir, and the girls had been too ashamed to invite anyone in. When Zeba had opened the door, it had always been just a crack, wide enough only to see who had come calling. The children would peer out from windows or inner doorways. There was a reluctance in the way Zeba would step back and pull the groaning metal door wide. The door, too, had been complicit in the resistance.
Gulnaz had known something was wrong, but she’d only seen part of the picture. She shuddered to think of how much she’d missed.
“Salaam,” said a young girl close to Kareema’s age. The sun was on Gulnaz’s back, making the child squint and curl half her mouth in a lopsided smile that she reserved for strangers.
“Wa-alaikum, little girl.” Gulnaz tried to peer behind her without gawking. The small courtyard looked tidy. There were no immediate signs of disarray. “Is your mother home? I’ve come to visit my grandchildren. Basir and the girls—are they here?”
“Yes, Khala-jan,” she exclaimed politely. She motioned with one grand sweep of the arm for Gulnaz to step inside. “Please do come in.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” Gulnaz said. “If you don’t mind calling them to come outside, I’ll wait for them here.”
The young girl looked uncomfortable. She was probably around ten years old and knew better than to leave an older woman standing on the street. She shifted her weight and tried once more.
“Please, Khala-jan, it’s nothing. Come inside and I will call them. It’s not right for you to stand in this sun.”
The sound of laughter came from within the home. It propelled Gulnaz forward despite her reluctance to enter the home of Kamal’s sister. She could be thrown out at any moment. Just as Gulnaz entered the courtyard, Tamina came out to see who had called. She was drying her hands on her skirt and didn’t recognize Gulnaz immediately. The branches of a sparsely leafed pear tree brushed against her shoulder. The moment she realized who stood before her, her feet came to an abrupt stop.
“Tamina-jan,” Gulnaz said softly. “Forgive me for coming to your home unannounced.”
Tamina’s eyes grew wide and her breathing slowed. She stood perfectly still.
It was up to Gulnaz to fill the silence with some kind of explanation for her presence.
“I’m here only to see my grandchildren. I do not wish to disturb you or your family in any way. I know you’ve been generous in caring for them after what happened to your brother, God forgive him.”
; When Tamina still failed to respond, Gulnaz debated leaving. Pleading was beneath her, but this situation was different. She had every reason to believe her daughter had killed Tamina’s eldest and only brother. His family had the right to demand blood for her crime, even if the justice system hadn’t yet reached a conclusion. She took a deep breath and continued.
“I never wanted such ugliness to affect this family, especially the children. They are innocent souls. If I could please see Basir and the girls, I will not bother you. I can walk with them outside and not disturb you or your children.”
Gulnaz snuck a glance at the house. She could hear voices within, talking and laughing. She hoped Tamina’s husband was not home. She had no interest in facing more people from the family.
“Madar-jan,” said the young girl softly. “Should I go call Basir and the others?”
Tamina took a deep breath and shook her head.
“I cannot believe you’ve come here,” she said in a voice husky with anger. “You’ve traveled a long way to see your grandchildren.”
Gulnaz cleared her throat.
“I did.”
People were always impressed with how far she’d gone, as if the physical distance between two places were the greatest obstacle she had to overcome.
“What made you think it was all right to appear at my door . . . in my home?” Tamina shot her daughter a look and motioned for her to go inside the house. Her daughter vanished without a word of protest, understanding that if she was to continue listening to this conversation she would have to do so from inside. Tamina was no longer still. She’d taken a step closer to Gulnaz, bringing the distance between them to the length of a man’s body.
“I am not here for any purpose other than to see my grandchildren,” Gulnaz repeated calmly. She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am not here to offer explanations or deliver messages of apology. I will not bother you with any empty words of condolence.”
“Condolence?” Tamina scoffed. She rested her hands on her hips and shook her head. Her head scarf draped softly at the nape of her neck. “I don’t need your condolences. I need you to leave my home. I need for my neighbors not to see me entertaining you in my home. What will people say? My brother is freshly in the ground and I am serving tea to his killer’s mother in my home?”
“Tamina-jan, no one knows I’m here. Not a soul from my own family knows, not even my son. And your neighbors can’t see through walls.”
“Walls are as solid as tea bags,” Tamina blurted. “Do you know what’s happened in this town? Do you know what people are saying about my brother and what this has done to our family? They’re saying that he had committed the ultimate act of blasphemy—burning the Qur’an, Allah forbid!”
Tamina tugged at both her earlobes and looked to the sky, begging God for forgiveness for having uttered such terrible words.
Gulnaz was stunned. She’d heard nothing of the sort, though it had been over a week since she’d spoken to either Zeba or Yusuf. Was this true?
“I . . . I hadn’t heard a word about . . .”
“That’s what this village is saying. People are looking at me now as if I’d handed him the matches to do it. And I’ve never heard such an accusation about my brother! Whatever my brother was in his life, I never let his sins touch my children. Now I’m afraid to take my children out of the house. My family’s name is blackened! People will not speak to my husband, and my sister has been shamed in front of her in-laws. Our walls are covered in spit and curses. They hate us—as if I had anything to do with my brother’s insanity. What else do you want to do to me? What else?”
She was furious now, her rage loose and her breathing heavy enough that Gulnaz could see the rise and fall of her chest below her collarbones. Her hands were clenched in tight balls.
“I didn’t know,” Gulnaz mumbled, covering her face with her hands. Her handbag had fallen to the ground with a defeated thud. Her fingers made a triangle at her mouth. It was time to reconsider her plan. She was doing her grandchildren no favors by poking a stick at their keeper. “I was wrong to come.”
She lifted her bag from the ground, her back aching in protest.
“I’m feeding his children with whatever we have for our own family. Did you come here to thank me or check on what I’m doing? Leave and do not dare to come back! If you care about these children, you’ll leave them in peace!”
Gulnaz half expected to feel Tamina’s fists pummel her back as she fled the yard. She heard the door creak to a close behind her and walked to the end of the block without pausing to wipe the tears from her cheeks. When had she become so powerless? When had she lost control over everything in her life?
Gulnaz stood with her back flattened against a clay wall. The small street crossed a main road buzzing with shops and the rumble of car engines. A Toyota Corolla drove past, the driver slowing to get a better look at her as she lingered in the alley. Gulnaz pulled her head scarf over her nose and mouth and let out a long, soft moan that drowned in the town’s bustle.
She’d been so close to her grandchildren. Had she done right to leave without putting up more of a fight? Perhaps Tamina needed more time. Maybe when the rumors circulating about Kamal died down, so would her anger.
She could predict Zeba’s disappointment already. Gulnaz had wanted only to hug the children and bring them news that their mother thought of them every moment of the day. She knew what Zeba feared most was for her own daughters to look at her the way she’d looked at her mother—she desperately feared the day they would glare at her with icy eyes or refuse to open the door when she came calling on them—if she were ever able to call on them.
Zeba was still in the shrine. Gulnaz wondered what the mullah had told her after she’d left. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to face Zeba after she’d left his quarters. At least, though, he’d vowed to take good care of Zeba.
Gulnaz, consumed in her thoughts, did not hear the soft footsteps that crept behind her. When the hand touched her arm, she jerked backward and shrieked.
“Bibi-jan.”
A small gasp escaped Gulnaz’s lips. She stared at the boy’s face before reaching out to touch him. He stared back at her and waited for her to speak.
“Basir . . .”
She could say nothing more than his name before her throat swelled so thickly that her breaths slowed. Hesitantly, she touched his shoulder. He blinked, slowly, but did not pull away. She drew him close to her with this small permission and held his face between her hands. He closed his eyes, and two rogue tears slipped through the mesh of his lashes.
“My sweet grandson.” Gulnaz pushed his hair back from his face. She brought her lips to the top of his head and kissed him, feeling his hairs bristle against her lips, the way Rafi’s once had.
In her life, she’d never been apart from her children. They’d been at her side always, especially once their father had disappeared. Sometimes she’d even told herself that his absence was a blessing because it gave her an undiluted relationship with Rafi and Zeba. There was no one to second-guess her decisions. There was no indulgent partner to make her appear severe in comparison. How relatively easy it seemed, in hindsight, to pull the curtains and shut the world out of their small world.
“Bibi-jan, I didn’t think you would come.”
Gulnaz shook her head.
“Of course I would come. I am your grandmother,” she said softly. “No matter what happens or where you are, I would not turn my back on you and your sisters. Your mother’s been so worried, too.”
“I know,” he said. “I . . . I went to see her.”
“She told me.”
Basir looked up abruptly.
“You’ve gone to see her?”
“I have. And she was so happy to have at least seen you. It was a long way from here and a dangerous trip for a boy.”
He winced at being called a boy.
“I had to go.”
“I suppose you did,” she agreed. “You had
questions for her, didn’t you? Were your questions answered?”
“I wish I hadn’t asked any questions,” Basir admitted reluctantly. He scratched at his head, not wanting to share what his mother had revealed to him. It felt like a personal shame, like his grandmother would slap him for his father’s sins. It was that shame that made Basir realize he believed every word his mother had told him even if he’d stormed away in anger that night.
“You’re right to ask questions and you’re right to be scared to death of the answers. But God gave you the parents you have, and nothing they’ve done is your fault,” Gulnaz said pointedly. She would not shame this boy by naming the sins of his father.
Basir nodded, not daring to look his grandmother in the eye.
“Your Ama Tamina is very angry with me for coming unannounced. She has a right to be angry after what’s happened to her family.”
“She cries a lot.”
Gulnaz let out a sigh.
“She’s lost her brother,” she said simply.
Basir looked up. His brow furrowed in disagreement.
“I don’t know if that’s why she cries. She says things when she’s upset . . . she says . . . she says my father never brought anything but problems to the family.”
“She’s a distraught woman. Hopefully, she has the heart not to take out her anger on you and the girls.”
“She’s mostly fine with us. I told my mother that, too.”
“Mostly?” Gulnaz was caught on that small word, and it tore her apart like chiffon on a nail.
“Yeah, she’s fine.”
“You said mostly.”
Basir shrugged his shoulders, and Gulnaz waited patiently. Something was coming to the surface, and she needed to hear it. The buzz of the main road filled the silence as Basir chose his words carefully.
“I . . . I feel like she’s angry with me. She doesn’t let me near her daughters and sometimes she . . . she doesn’t even let me near Kareema or Shabnam. She keeps them all in one room with her at night. They’re scared, Bibi-jan. I know I’m supposed to look after them and Rima, too, but she acts like . . . she screams at me sometimes to get away from them. It’s easier for me to be out of the house. That’s why she didn’t even realize I’d gone to the shrine to visit my mother. I sleep in the courtyard most nights, but I don’t mind it. I don’t mean to complain.”
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