Yusuf’s colleagues in the main office understood his frustration, though they had little patience for it. Sometimes, his huffing incited anger in those who had been diligently doing this work before he showed up. Aneesa was the head of the legal aid group. She was a bold woman in her early forties who had lived in Australia for the worst years of the war. She’d returned after the fall of the Taliban, determined to put her foreign law degree to good use. Yusuf had been immediately impressed by her when they’d first met.
“Yusuf-jan,” Aneesa began firmly, “the justice system, if you can even call it that, is as twisted as a mullah’s turban. There are ways to work with what we have, but it takes creativity and patience. You cannot expect this country to have its house in perfect order the moment you decided to walk through the door. There’s a lot to be done. And even more to be undone. Yes, in many places the authority of the white beard prevails. What the elders say is law. Lucky for you that your client is facing a judge, not a community trial. And from what I’ve heard about the judge overseeing your case, you should be very thankful. You could be at the mercy of someone much, much worse.”
Yusuf thought of the qazi. Maybe Aneesa was right. The judge hadn’t yet brought up execution. Others probably would have by now. He flipped to a new page on his notepad and made a reminder to learn what he could about the judge. There could be an angle he could use to his advantage.
YUSUF WAS IN THE OFFICE BY NINE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING morning, earlier than everyone except Aneesa. When he entered, she waved to him from her desk and adjusted her head scarf, a thin mocha-colored veil in perfect harmony with her pantsuit. Aneesa had quietly pleasant features, soft brown eyes, and a delicate chin. She pursed her lips just slightly when she was thinking. She had a sharp legal mind, Yusuf had learned quickly. Well versed in both Sharia and constitutional law, she could glide between Dari and Pashto and had built a reputation as one of the city’s most formidable lawyers since her return to Afghanistan. Yusuf could only imagine what kind of force she’d been in Australia, the salary she must have turned her back on to return to her homeland.
Yusuf greeted her and sat at his desk on the opposite side of the office. They were separated by two putty-colored filing cabinets.
Aneesa took a hard look at him—hard enough to make Yusuf uncomfortable.
“Have you been sleeping?”
He nodded.
“I’m fine. The dust here, it’s . . . I’m fine.”
“How’s the case going?” She spoke to him in English, a faint Aussie accent that somehow made the conversation feel more casual.
“It’s not,” Yusuf admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair just so he wouldn’t rub his eyes. “I’m defending a woman who doesn’t want to be defended. She thinks it’s better for her children if she doesn’t put up a fight. When she’s not screaming like a lunatic, she doesn’t talk. She’s given me nothing to go on. How am I supposed to make a case out of that?”
“We work with what we have,” Aneesa said matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned about the case against this woman? Maybe we can come up with something together,” she suggested. She pulled a chair over and propped her elbows on the desk. It shifted. Without a word, Aneesa tore a page off a newspaper lying nearby, folded it, and wedged it under the lopsided leg. Yusuf pretended not to notice. He’d been meaning to do the same. He cleared his throat and began laying out what he’d learned thus far about the day of the murder.
“Did the police note any bruises on Zeba? Did she say anything about him beating her?”
Yusuf shook his head.
“Some bruises on her neck but someone had tried to choke her just before she was arrested. I know what you’re getting at. I was hoping to somehow use that defense, but she’s not even hinted that her husband had done something awful to her. I know there’s something there, though.” Yusuf pictured Zeba, her face solemn as a tombstone. She was always so careful with her words. “I can’t believe this woman would slam an ax into her husband’s head without reason. She doesn’t strike me as that type of person. She’s too controlled for that.”
“Controlled? The woman who screamed her head off in the judge’s office and then slept for two days?”
“That might not have been her most controlled moment,” Yusuf conceded. “But I’m telling you, this is not a woman who loses it so easily.”
“Maybe. What has her family said? What did they think of her husband?”
“Her family hasn’t been around. Her brother, Rafi, hasn’t said much about Zeba’s husband, just that he wished his sister had never been married off to him. It’s obvious he feels guilty for letting her marry that man. He wouldn’t say anything specific. ‘Talk to my sister,’ he kept saying. ‘She knew him better than anyone.’ He did say his sister did not deserve to be in prison—that her children needed her and wouldn’t fare well living with their father’s family. I believe him.”
“And no one else from the family is coming forward?”
“There’s nothing recorded in the arrest register,” Yusuf said, tapping his pen against the notepad. “The chief of police said only that there were no witnesses to the murder, but then nearly the entire neighborhood was there to see the body and Zeba sitting there, covered in blood. There doesn’t seem to be much room for doubt.”
“Talk to the neighbors. Someone must know something. The sun cannot be hidden behind two fingers.”
Yusuf bit his lip. He’d taken the arrest report at face value, but Aneesa was right. He had no choice but to make a trip to Zeba’s village. Why not, he thought, looking at his cell phone and seeing that no one had called.
THE QUIET OF HIS APARTMENT WAS BROKEN BY THE SOUNDS OF traffic and daily life filtering through the window. Mischievous boys chased after a dog in the alley, just as Yusuf had done as a child. The bustle of the market had settled as the skies turned hazy and aromas from food carts swirled into the evening air. Yusuf considered shutting his window to block the noise, but he found that the passing voices both comforted him and helped him focus.
What were Zeba’s children thinking? Her son was old enough that he would have known if something was amiss at home. Would he be willing to speak about his father? Was it at all possible that Zeba hadn’t killed her husband? Yusuf closed his eyes, trying to imagine his client burying a hatchet in the back of her husband’s head. How tall had her husband been? Was he thin and wiry or heavyset? How close was the nearest neighbor’s house?
Yusuf began to pace. Aneesa had given him some ideas today, some direction. He would need to see Zeba. They had much to talk about.
He pulled out his yellow pad and made a few notes. He circled some thoughts, scratched out others. He rubbed his eyes.
His phone rang. He looked at the number and saw Meena’s name flash on the screen. Should he answer? They’d spoken on the phone several times, each conversation more comfortable than the last. Three days ago, though, Meena had surprised him. Her tone had been polite and reserved. When Yusuf asked her what was wrong, she’d told him she was not honestly sure if they should continue their phone calls. Yusuf had been taken aback and abruptly asked her why. He wondered if she was uncomfortable spending so much time on the phone with him. Maybe she wanted confirmation of his intentions. But Meena had hesitated, leaving his question unanswered but promising to call him in a few days.
He pressed the talk button.
“YUSUF,” SHE STARTED, HER VOICE SMALL AND SERIOUS. “I DON’T want you to think badly of me. I didn’t know my mother had given my number to you. She likes you so much . . . both my parents do. My whole family loves yours, actually.”
“Meena, what’s going on?”
“I need to tell you something. I’ve been trying to find a way around it, but I can’t come up with anything and I feel like you deserve the truth.”
Yusuf leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.
“Go ahead, Meena-qand,” he urged, wondering if he was going too far by using endearments. “T
ell me what it is.”
“I . . . I’ve been in love with someone for the last year. My parents are not happy about it because they don’t like his family but . . . but that doesn’t change anything for him or me. I’m so embarrassed to tell you this.”
In love with someone else. Yusuf blinked rapidly. He’d thought Meena had pulled away because she wanted more from him when the truth was that she wanted less.
“Oh, I see,” he said, wavering between anger and sadness.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem like . . .”
“Listen, Meena, you don’t have to explain.”
“My mother was hoping that seeing you . . . talking to you . . . the possibility of going to America . . . that it would change me. You know what I mean?”
He’d been a ploy—an unwitting pawn in Khala Zainab’s strategy.
“Listen, Meena. You should follow your heart,” Yusuf replied curtly. “No hard feelings. Thanks for letting me know. I’ve got lots of work to do here so . . . good night, okay?”
“Oh, sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. I just . . . yes, good night.”
With a click, it was over, and Yusuf was more disappointed than he should have been. They’d only spoken on the phone for a couple of weeks. They’d never held hands or talked over a cup of tea or brushed shoulders as they walked down the street. Why should he feel like he’d lost the girl he was meant to be with?
Yusuf groaned angrily, rolled onto his belly, and buried his face in his pillow. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he did need to get married.
CHAPTER 20
MEZHGAN SAT CROSS-LEGGED IN FRONT OF ZEBA’S BED. SHE rarely woke this early in the morning, but she’d been particularly restless since Gulnaz’s visit.
“Zeba-jan, I want to ask you something.”
Zeba did not respond.
“Please. I know you’re awake. I can tell by the way you’re breathing.”
Zeba moaned, quietly enough that Mezhgan didn’t hear it. She sat up and yawned, wondering what could be so urgent that it had the girl rising with the sun.
“When is your mother coming back? Maybe you can ask her to help my situation. Would she do it?”
“My mother would tell you that this is your own mess and that you’ve got to deal with it. She would tell you it was a mistake to fall in love with a man before his family fell in love with you.”
Mezhgan was unperturbed. She blinked rapidly and pressed her palms against the small round of her belly and looked thoughtful.
“I bet you can help me. I bet you know how she does it anyway. You’ve got to tell me everything you know. Surely she must have done something similar in the past? Is there something I should eat? Maybe something I should feed my fiancé’s mother?”
“Fiancé?” Latifa laughed, awake now. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “If he were your fiancé, you wouldn’t be here. You want Zeba’s mother to wave a magic feather around so your movie star boyfriend will go running to your parents and beg for your hand in marriage. Psht, maybe if she does too good a job with it, you’ll have a whole crew of boys asking your father for your hand in marriage. Wouldn’t that be nice? You and your harami baby can choose a man together.”
“Don’t say that, Latifa. He wants to marry me but his parents . . . they just haven’t agreed yet. You probably don’t know anything about jadu, but I know it can work. My uncle is married to a hideous-looking woman he wouldn’t otherwise have looked at, and my whole family knows it’s because she cast a spell on him. He wanted nothing to do with her one day and by the next week he was begging his parents to ask for her hand. Jadu, for certain.”
Latifa sat back down on her cot and rolled her eyes.
“Your uncle sounds an awful lot like a pregnant girl.”
“You’re curious, too,” Nafisa said, inserting herself into the conversation. “You nearly climbed the fence to get a better look at her when she came to visit!”
“What else is there to do here? I’ve been in this chicken coop with the same women for months and I’m tired of hearing all your stories. If Judgment Day comes and God has any questions about either of you, He should call me first. I’ll fill Him in with what you did with whom and when,” Latifa joked.
Nafisa and Mezhgan covered their mouths and squealed.
“Latifa! Watch what you say! God forgive you.” Nafisa sat up and let her legs dangle over the side of her bed, the one above Latifa’s.
“It’s true,” Latifa insisted. She pushed Nafisa’s legs aside and stood. “Come on, Zeba. Tell this poor girl what she wants to hear. Give her the secret recipe and help her find her way back to a respectable life. Spare the world the shame of another harami baby, will you, please?”
Mezhgan bit her lip.
“Shut your ugly mouth, Latifa,” Nafisa shot back. There was much she could tolerate from Latifa, but she drew the line when her cellmate referred to an unborn child as a bastard. “Stop calling the poor girl’s baby harami! It’s not like you’ve got much to be proud of. Are you here because you were just too honorable for your family?”
The air was thick with tension. Mezhgan kept her gaze on Zeba’s bedsheet, fearful that anything she said would invite more insults. Nafisa looked down at Latifa from the top bunk, her arms folded across her chest defiantly.
Zeba broke the quiet with a couplet:
“Life’s made your heart as tense as a blister
Don’t spill its pus on your innocent sister.”
Latifa tapped her foot, annoyed.
“Fine, I won’t call him that,” she finally conceded, before her face broke into a smile. “And you’re right. My family’s not in the least proud of what I’ve done. But at least my belly’s not growing the evidence of my crime.”
Mezhgan smiled weakly and Nafisa’s shoulders relaxed. The banter between them filled the otherwise drab days.
“No, your belly is just growing, my chubby friend!”
Latifa chuckled and rubbed her belly as a gesture of truce. Heavyset to start with, she’d rounded considerably in her time in the prison. Her pumpkin-colored dress strained at the waist. Her face had grown fuller, like a waxing moon. At every meal, Latifa ate as if she’d received news that she would return to the world of scarcity tomorrow.
“Your friend is avoiding your question, Mezhgan. Looks like Khanum Zeba’s not interested in helping you,” Latifa teased.
Mezhgan sensed truth in Latifa’s words. She turned her attention back to Zeba.
“You will help me, won’t you? It would be the noble thing to do—to bring two families together with a respectable marriage. Think what a blessing it would be for this child. How could you possibly refuse?”
Zeba was nervous. These girls knew nothing about the jadu she’d learned from Gulnaz. They couldn’t possibly imagine the things she’d helped her mother do. Zeba felt ashamed to think of the concoctions she’d carried, the illnesses she’d delivered, the malice she’d stirred. Was it possible to use the tricks she’d learned without causing harm?
It must be possible, Zeba thought. She thought of the way her mother had stared off into the distance as they’d talked. She imagined how long her mother must have traveled just to slip two fingers through a metal fence. There was good in her that was surely not new. It was only that Zeba was seeing her mother in a new light. She had the darkness to thank for this new insight.
“My mother’s jadu is unmatched,” Zeba stated with confidence. “She’s started and ended love affairs. She’s pulled people out of their deathbeds and thrown others in. She’s made minds hot with anger and others soft with love. From the time I was a young girl, I stood at her side and learned every potion, every unfathomable combination, and I know better than anyone what her spells are capable of. You want to marry this boy, Mezhgan? A problem as simple as yours can be fixed in the time it takes to bring a pot of water to boil.”
Zeba exhaled sharply. There was pride in her voice, more than even she had expect
ed to hear. The women in the cell listened carefully; she’d commanded their attention. They watched her eyes glisten, her cheeks draw in, and her neck straighten. Latifa was not snickering or mocking her. Mezhgan and Nafisa absorbed every word. Zeba could taste the respect in the air. She was reluctant to break the silence and spoil the moment.
Mezhgan spoke first.
“I believe it, Khanum Zeba,” she affirmed, her voice trembling with young hope. “I beg of you to help me. Tell me what I should do!”
“I don’t know if I should be getting mixed up in your troubles,” Zeba said quietly. It was true.
“Please, Zeba. I swear to you he’s my beloved and I am his. We are destined to be together. We need only someone to unlock our fates.”
Across the room, Nafisa’s eyebrows rose a degree.
Was I ever so naïve? Zeba wondered. She felt like Gulnaz, a seer amid the blind. But she couldn’t bring herself to disappoint the girl sitting before her, waiting for her help so earnestly it was heartbreaking. Zeba thought of the many hours between now and tomorrow. Then she thought of the many days ahead of her. She leaned back, her palms flat against the thin mattress of her prison bed.
My bed, Zeba thought. This is where I’ll be sleeping for God knows how many nights. Maybe all the nights of my life, however many that may be.
If she did not find a way to claim the cold walls around her, they would close in on her. Zeba looked around the room. The other women had hung up pictures, magazine cutouts, or family photos on the rectangular spaces above their beds. Nafisa had cross-stitched a geometric border in red thread on her white blanket. Latifa had set a vase of artificial roses at the foot of her bed.
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