A House Without Windows

by Nadia Hashimi

  He was carefully reeling in his words, as if nervous that he might be making his situation worse by saying them.

  Gulnaz bit her lip. She thought back to what Tamina had said in those few angry moments.

  “Oh dear Allah,” she breathed with a hand over her mouth. She turned her back to Basir as the truth hit her. Tamina’s anger hadn’t come from a sense of mourning. She’d not said a single word about losing Kamal or about Kamal being killed senselessly. Tamina, who had lived with her brother every day of her life until she was married, was only angry at what had been done to her family, not to her brother.

  She did not trust Basir because Tamina could never trust the son of Kamal. Tamina had no love for her brother. Every cell of her body had seethed with resentment that Gulnaz should have recognized, but she’d not wanted to believe that evil could run so deep. How could she have been so blind?

  Basir watched her mutely. It was not his fault that he looked dark with guilt, Gulnaz wanted to tell him. It was the color of the sky reflecting on him. It was completely out of his hands.

  “Bibi-jan.”

  Gulnaz nodded. This was the truth. This had always been the truth. What had Zeba’s life been? What had her granddaughters suffered? Gulnaz felt ill, as if the contents of her stomach might empty into the street if she let herself think of it a moment longer.

  She cleared her throat and choked back tears. She looked at Basir who was pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes with all the stoicism he could gather. How much did he really know? How much of what he felt was just that—feeling?

  “We’ve got to get you back,” Gulnaz said, curling a loving arm around her grandson’s hunched shoulders. His head leaned into her as he would have leaned into his mother if she could have been here at this moment. At least Tamina’s house was a safe place for her grandchildren. Tamina would let nothing happen to the children. She wouldn’t let Kamal reach from the grave and violate her peace. Not again.

  CHAPTER 41

  ZEBA WAS AWAKENED BY THE FEELING THAT SOMEONE WAS standing over her.

  “Zeba-jan, what can I do but pray over you?” a shadow whispered. “Gulnaz is right, even if it pains me to admit it. This is no place for you.”

  Zeba’s tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth.

  “You . . . what do you want with my mother?”

  “Drink this,” the mullah said as he handed her a bowl of broth. Zeba heard the clink of bones against ceramic, greasy steam rising into her face. He nudged the dish toward her lips and barely flinched when she batted it away violently. Though her eyes had not yet adjusted, Zeba could tell that his clothes were wet with hot soup, the smell of salt and onions mixing with his sweat.

  Zeba waited for the mullah to strike her, to yank her up by the hair the way a toddler lifts a doll—he did not.

  “What did you do to my mother?” she asked; her question had gone unanswered the last time she’d seen him.

  “I wish things could have gone differently. I’m an old man now and I’m looking back at my family and wondering if I made the right choices for my children. I’m still not sure.”

  “My children,” Zeba whispered, speaking more to the night than the mullah. “My daughter Rima should be taking her first steps with my hand to hold her up.”

  “She might be running.” Habibullah sighed. “Children have a way of moving on even after they lose a parent.”

  That, Zeba thought to herself, was the kind of foolishness only a man would speak.

  “Your boy looks content. He follows you. He respects you and, more important, he does not fear you. That’s why I thought you to be a decent man before you dared put your hands on my mother.”

  The mullah went quiet. The three-quarter moon cast pillars of light high into the sky. The mullah was crouched at the mouth of her cell, pressing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger.

  “I am old,” he said finally. “I am too old and too tired to be anything but this. Your mother looks like she could be your sister. She’s the only one time hasn’t touched in this entire country. I am not surprised. She is so unyielding, she puts the mountains to shame.”

  “You dare to speak as if you know her.”

  “Once upon a time, I knew her very well. Once upon a time, I took her as my bride.”

  Zeba sat straight up. If this were a dream, she would have to shake herself from its grip before it went further.

  “What are you saying?” she demanded, her voice uneven.

  The mullah nodded solemnly. Zeba stared at him and traced time backward, undoing his beard and the grays of his hair. She looked into his eyes and followed the shape of his nose and shoulders.

  “You . . . you are not dead?”

  “Not yet, janem,” he answered flatly. Zeba’s heart skipped. She fought the urge to let out a cry, to put her hands on his face. She focused on her breathing, closing her eyes as she whispered the question she’d asked so many, many times.

  “Where were you?”

  Zeba wondered if he would name a single place, as if a geographic location would do anything to explain a lifetime of absence.

  “I went everywhere. I became a nomad.”

  “I prayed for you.”

  Zeba thought of the many times she’d gazed fearfully at the mountains to the east and thought of the four hundred twenty-three rickety wooden steps that linked their province to the next. Many had died there, she’d learned even as a child, losing their foothold or frozen with fright. She’d prayed to God that her father not be at the bottom of a ravine.

  “I had to leave, Zeba. It was the best thing I could do—to free us both.”

  “The boy . . . you have a family now?”

  The mullah shrugged.

  “I did what any man would have done. I married and began again.”

  Zeba blinked rapidly. It sounded so easy, like putting one book down and opening another. But it made sense to her, too, because she was not completely unlike this man. She, too, had turned her back on Gulnaz.

  There was a new, spectacular lightness in her chest. Zeba sighed. It seemed she was only as crazy as her parents had made her.

  “Sing to me,” she said to the man who’d left her so long ago. It seemed like a small request to make while she sorted out whether to love or hate him.

  His voice, thick with nostalgia and with a rasp that showed his years, broke the silence of the heartbreaking night. They were two forlorn beings, the distance between them dissolving under the twinkling of the stars. They did not look at each other.

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

  Zeba’s father touched the top of her head. His thumb rested on her widow’s peak, the very center of her forehead, and she felt like he was reaching into her soul.

  His song floated into the night. It was a confession. It was a prayer. Zeba raised her voice with his even as the tears slid down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 42

  YUSUF HAD JUST GOTTEN OFF THE PHONE WITH RAFI, ZEBA’S brother. He was pleased to hear that his sister would be returned to Chil Mahtab after spending nearly three weeks at the mullah’s. He’d wanted to visit her there, Rafi swore to Yusuf, but couldn’t leave his wife when their fourth child was due to arrive at any moment. Yusuf could hear the guilt in his voice but wasn’t sure if it was his place to reassure Rafi. Every man had his choices to make.

  He was sitting in the interview room at Chil Mahtab waiting for Asma, the guard who would be accompanying him to the shrine to bring back Zeba. He was toying with his cell phone when he saw Latifa standing idly in the hallway. He recognized Zeba’s cellmate and, seeing that she was staring directly at him, greeted her with a slight nod. At the acknowledgment, she opened the door and poked her head inside.

  “You’re Zeba’s lawyer,” she blurted.

  “I am,” he said cautiously. “Did you need something?”

  “When is she coming back? We know they took
her to some shrine for crazies, which is stupid. Do you know why that was stupid?” Latifa did not wait for Yusuf to answer. “Because she’s not crazy. She’s powerful and we need her back here. When is she coming back?”

  “Soon,” Yusuf said, hesitant to get into the details. “The judge has approved her return.”

  “The judge has!” Latifa grew angry, something red and hot rising in her, the kind of swelling that had created the dent in the door of their cell. “Well, I suppose you think that’s good news, but that only means he’s done playing around. Two other women were charged with murder and sentenced to decades. It’s just a matter of time before he sentences one to death.”

  “Have faith. Things could change,” Yusuf said carefully.

  “As long as men are the judges, nothing will change.”

  Yusuf suddenly felt a bit defensive on behalf of all men.

  “There was a woman nominated to serve on the Supreme Court last week. Things may change.”

  “Did you not hear the rest?” Latifa shot back. “She was rejected because she dares bleed once a month.”

  Yusuf had heard that news, actually. A Supreme Court justice would have to touch the Qur’an every day, one parliamentarian had argued. How could a woman be a judge when she could not touch the Qur’an one whole week out of the month? The reasoning had made Yusuf groan. Aneesa had hurled a book across the office when she’d read about it online. She was still ranting when Yusuf slipped away to get to Chil Mahtab.

  “Actually,” Yusuf said, putting his phone down on the table and turning his full attention to Latifa. “I’m going today to bring her back. But what makes you say that she’s powerful? I’m curious.”

  Latifa’s hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She reached both hands back, parted the swath in two, and tugged to tighten it. Yusuf, who had spent his life sharing a room with two sisters, felt a twinge of homesickness at the familiar gesture.

  “You don’t know what she’s done for the women here,” Latifa said, her eyebrows raised for emphasis. “The problems that keep women up at night—she’s made them go away. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s like her mother or maybe even better. I didn’t believe it at first. I don’t buy into that jadu stuff usually, but this is the first time I’ve seen it myself. Are you really going to bring her back today?”

  “That’s the plan.” Yusuf was still considering Latifa’s revelations. Had the prisoners ranked the black magic of the two women? “But what do you mean better than her mother?”

  “Better than her mother the jadugar,” Latifa said, drawing the words out. Believing that she knew something Zeba’s lawyer did not know, she gained confidence and stepped into the interview room. “You know her mother’s a jadugar, right? Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

  Yusuf chuckled lightly. Zeba and her mother had made quite an impression on the prisoners, it seemed. He feigned mild surprise.

  “I’m here to deal with other issues,” he said lightly.

  “Oh, you’re wrong to laugh this off, mister,” Latifa chided, her hands resting on her wide hips. It was at this moment that Yusuf realized she was wearing a butter-yellow Pinocchio T-shirt. While Latifa wondered if he was gawking at her heavy chest, Yusuf noted the elongated wooden nose, faded to a splintered memory. This cartoon fibber, a gentle warning to children not to lie, struck him as particularly odd plastered across a prisoner’s body. “The worst thing you can do is doubt a jadugar. You tell Zeba that the women of Chil Mahtab are waiting for Malika Zeba.”

  “Malika Zeba?” Yusuf repeated, scratching at his head. “You’ve named her a queen?”

  “Just tell her,” Latifa whispered, shaking her head with a sly smile. “The women will be on fire to hear she’s coming back.”

  Asma walked in just as Latifa was turning to leave. Asma’s red hair curled around her forehead, moist with beads of sweat. She straightened her jacket and shot Latifa an expectant look, but Latifa had already backed her way out of the interview room with a bowed head.

  “Godspeed to you both! May your trip be quick and successful,” she shouted as she made her way down the hall, her hands cupped around her mouth. Her words echoed against the alphabet-covered walls. “Ladies, good news! They’re bringing back the queen of Chil Mahtab!”

  Asma looked at Yusuf expectantly. She did not seem the least bit surprised by Latifa’s booming announcement.

  “Ready?” she asked with a quick nod toward the door.

  THE SOUNDS OF THE PRISON CAR’S ENGINE DID NOT INSPIRE confidence, nor did the lack of air-conditioning. The fan purred but blew only hot air into the car. Yusuf sat with his head nearly out the passenger-side window to catch the dusty breeze. He kept his eyes shut. He was down to his last bottle of eyedrops and was unconvinced he would find anything decent in the local pharmacies. The midnight blue upholstery was heavy with the smell of old tobacco and scarred with tears and holes. The driver, a male prison guard, drove with two hands on the wheel, his fingers drumming as he hummed to himself. Asma and another guard sat in the backseat.

  Yusuf was not sure what to expect. Qazi Najeeb had called his friend, the mullah, to let him know that they were going to be bringing Zeba back. The mullah hadn’t made much of an argument, apparently, which surprised Yusuf. When the driver pulled up on the parking brake in front of the mullah’s quarters, Yusuf saw a curtain pull back slightly. By the height, he could tell it was the mullah’s son. He stepped out of the car and shook his legs, feeling the sweat on the backs of his thighs. It had been wise to wear black slacks today.

  The mullah did not emerge until they were all out of the car. The wooden door opened slowly, and he stepped out calmly to meet them. The guards were the first to speak, the male guard putting a hand over his heart in respect. The mullah nodded and looked to Yusuf.

  “Quite a caravan to accompany one woman. I did not expect so many of you,” he said without smiling.

  Yusuf shielded his eyes from the sun.

  “The warden thought it necessary.”

  The mullah nodded.

  “How has she been?” Yusuf asked. He looked over to the row of cells in the distance. Two men sat cross-legged in the open space, under the dappled shade of a tree thirsty for rain. There was no sign of Zeba, which should not have made Yusuf uneasy but it did. He’d hoped to find her sitting in the plastic chair outside the mullah’s door, just as he’d left her.

  “She’s been well,” Mullah Habibullah replied. “She has a strong spirit, but you knew that already, I’m sure.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d like to speak to you for a moment,” the mullah said.

  “Of course, Mullah-sahib,” Yusuf replied respectfully. “And then we’ll be glad to take Khanum Zeba off your hands and get her back to Chil Mahtab. The judge has given me specific instructions. I’m sure you understand.”

  “A moment, young man.”

  Asma and the other female guard exchanged a quick look before walking over to the metal fence of the shrine where devotees had tied pieces of multicolored ribbon and even some strips of tattered paper. The guard who had driven them took out his cell phone and began dialing. The mullah led Yusuf back into his quarters. Yusuf’s stomach sank a bit, anxious to leave. He’d brought a bag of chips, a chicken kebab rolled in flatbread, and a bottle of water for Zeba, anticipating that she might be very seriously malnourished.

  It had not been a full forty days. The mullah was likely not happy that his treatment was being cut short, and whatever protests he had not lodged with the judge were sure to come Yusuf’s way now. He wondered if he could count on the guards to help him forcibly take Zeba back into custody if push came to shove.

  Yusuf stepped into the room and prepared a rebuttal for the mullah’s argument. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice Zeba sitting on the floor cushion where he had sat on that first day at the shrine. In front of her was a steaming cup of black
tea and two ceramic bowls, one of pine nuts and the other of green raisins.

  “Zeba! You’re . . . you’re here.” Yusuf’s eyes darted from his client to the mullah who had already taken a seat on another floor cushion. He sat just a few feet away from her, close enough that if he stretched his arm out, his fingertips would touch her. She could have been mistaken for a houseguest.

  Yusuf had imagined he would find Zeba starved and unkempt, weakened by exposure. He had counted every day that she had spent in this shrine as a personal failure. He’d thought of her Spartan cell with every forkful of rice he’d brought to his mouth. He’d braced himself, in these nineteen days, for word that she had succumbed to hunger or that she’d descended into a new depth of madness.

  “Are you all right?”

  Zeba nodded.

  “I’ve come to take you back to Chil Mahtab.”

  “I know,” she said, stealing a glance at the mullah. “I was told yesterday. I’m ready to leave.”

  The mullah cleared his throat and absently thumbed the onyx beads of a tasbeh. He sat with one leg bent and the other stretched straight. He wore a gray cotton tunic and pantaloons. Yusuf noticed, for the first time, his thick salt-and-pepper sideburns, curly patches that thickened along his jaw and gathered in a short beard at his chin. He wondered what this man would look like with a shave and change of clothes.

  “Before you go, I want to know what will become of her.”

  Yusuf turned his gaze to the carpet. Was there a polite way of telling the mullah it wasn’t any of his business?

  “Her case is yet to be decided by the judge,” he answered. “Now if you could tell me what you think of her condition today as compared to her first day here, I’ll gladly take that information back to Qazi Najeeb.”