A House Without Windows

by Nadia Hashimi

  “I just don’t know.” Sultana pursed her lips and considered Yusuf carefully.

  The other attorney was off the phone now and looking in their direction. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Yusuf who his visitor was. Yusuf raised a hand and looked back at his desk. He was in no mood to explain.

  “Village rumors. I’ve never wanted to have anything to do with them. They’ll be the death of all of us, I swear,” Sultana whispered.

  Yusuf ran his fingers through his hair. He had every reason to anticipate defeat in this case. The odds had been against him from the beginning. A dead husband, a reticent wife, no witnesses or possible suspects. She should have been hung long ago.

  Sultana stood up abruptly, smoothing her jacket over the seat of her pants. She reached for her handbag.

  “You’re leaving?” Yusuf said. He didn’t want her to go. If nothing else, he wanted her to stay and tell him that he’d done everything he could have done. She was the only other person who knew the truth.

  “I’ve got to be getting back,” she said. She met his gaze and saw the dismay in his eyes. He saw the determination in hers. “And I want to call the judge before it gets too late.”

  CHAPTER 51

  QAZI NAJEEB HUNG UP THE PHONE AND RUBBED THE CURL OF HIS ear between two fingers.

  “Who was that?” his wife called from the next room.

  He didn’t notice, his ear still buzzing from his conversation with Mullah Habibullah.

  “Was it Shazia? Did she say if they’re going to Kabul for the holidays?”

  He felt the dull ache of acid rising in his chest and wasn’t sure if he should blame his wife’s qorma or the news he’d just received from his friend. He marveled at how little he’d known of this man, even after all these years, accepting blindly that the mullah had moved from another province to serve the people. That was only a sliver of the truth. The judge, who was on a daily basis presented with lies and false stories, felt he should have detected the holes in this one.

  But he hadn’t.

  “Old man, have you gone deaf?” his wife shouted. She was standing in the doorway, an arched frame between the two rooms. She held a half-washed frying pan in one hand.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Did I say something?” she repeated in disbelief.

  “Okay, it’s clear you did. What was it?”

  “I asked if your sister called.”

  Qazi Najeeb shook his head.

  “Then call her and ask her if they’re going to Kabul for the holidays. I want to ask her to pick up some fabric for me.”

  “I’ll call her tomorrow,” he mumbled. “Is there any tea left in the pot?”

  “No. I’ll put some water to boil,” his wife said, turning to go back into the kitchen. She paused just before she disappeared completely. “Have you thought about closing your eyes for a few minutes? You look exhausted.”

  Qazi Najeeb nodded. She was a good wife, he admitted, even if she did strip him of all his airs the moment he walked through the door. She had the decency to do it only when they were alone and often reminded him that she saw it as her duty to do so. The rest of the world bows their heads to you, dear judge. It’s my job to remind you you’re just a man.

  “I’m going to walk for a few minutes. My legs feel stiff.”

  “Those knees of yours are getting worse. I’m going to steep some herbs and ginger for them.”

  As the judge bent one knee and pushed himself to standing, he considered the way he’d thought of Gulnaz. Those eyes of hers, that pair of emeralds had entranced him, made him regret that he’d not courted her with more gusto in his youth. Would his body have ached the way it did if he’d spent a lifetime with her? Or would she have driven him away the way she had the mullah?

  “When are you going to be declaring the verdict for that case?” she called from out of view.

  “Tomorrow.” He straightened his tunic, scowling to see two splotches of red grease on his shirt from lunch.

  “Thursday? Just before the weekend? Really, are you so callous that you would announce a death sentence on the eve of our day of prayer?”

  “Is there a better day of the week to be sentenced to death?” he asked facetiously. Najeeb heard the low whistle of the teakettle.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Look, I’ve already got two lawyers pestering me with this case. I don’t need a third one at home.”

  “Can you imagine me working as a lawyer?” His wife laughed. She had reached only the fourth grade before being pulled out to tend to her younger siblings. And though she was literate, she’d never contemplated working outside the home, nor had any of the women in her family. It was not an idea the qazi would have ever entertained even if she had.

  Qazi Najeeb’s thoughts flitted back to Zeba. She might very well be the mullah’s daughter, but as far as he could tell, there was no question that she’d killed her husband.

  He stood and made his way through the front door and into the courtyard. He inhaled deeply, the sweet fragrance of his wife’s dill plants restoring him. He paused to touch the yellow umbrella flowers and dragged his fingers through the feathery leaves.

  Habibullah had sounded embarrassed on the phone, though more so because he’d lied about his background than because he’d left his wife and children. Najeeb wanted to do his friend a favor, but he felt genuinely torn. He’d wanted so badly to make this case a landmark one. He’d envisioned himself as a pioneer, a man who would be remembered for ushering in a new age of Afghan jurisprudence. It was not crazy to imagine that he might be sought out for a position on an appellate court or perhaps even the Supreme Court, forever tying his own legacy to that of Afghanistan.

  Zeba’s four children probably grieved their father. They deserved to see justice, he reasoned, even if Habibullah saw it differently.

  He was a terrible man, his old friend had said at last, a man who didn’t deserve the wife and children he had. Zeba’s a good woman. She’s devout and pure in her heart. Her husband is responsible for this mess, not her.

  My friend, Najeeb had replied somberly, I understand this is disappointing for you as a father. But how could she not be responsible? And I have to wonder how well you could know her anyway. I know she’s your daughter, but you haven’t seen her in decades. Think of how different every one of us is compared to how we were thirty years ago.

  In the end, he’d promised to take the mullah’s entreaties into consideration and do anything he could to honor his friend’s request. He swore not to breathe a word of their relationship to anyone else and he’d meant it. If this case did attract attention, Najeeb did not want too much scrutiny to land on the shrine. The mullah was truly helping people there, and the judge didn’t see any reason to drag a man of God’s good works through the mud.

  Najeeb stepped into the street, pulling his tasbeh from his vest pocket. He lived on a lane of similar one-storied homes, each bordered by an outer wall that lent privacy to their inner lives. It made the road into something of a corridor, high walls on either side. Najeeb closed the metal door behind him, shuttering his sanctuary from the view of neighbors and passersby. He thought of the swarms of people who’d entered Zeba’s home that day and surrounded her, as the police report had described. How many had there been? Dozens of gawkers trespassing a family’s private life. That was what these women did not understand, Najeeb thought. All the women of Chil Mahtab had taken down their walls with their crimes, they’d pulled aside their purdah, their protective veil. Some had flaunted their relationships with men. Some had worked late hours with male colleagues. Some had left their fathers’ homes. They should have anticipated the consequences.

  Najeeb had not made it to the end of his block when he stopped abruptly. He narrowed his eyes and wondered if his vision was not in worse shape than his knees. There was no mistaking her, though.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked incredulously.

  “Qazi-sahib,” Gulnaz said, her voice eve
n and purposeful. “I need to speak to you.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I asked people. You’re well known in this neighborhood.”

  He’d stopped thumbing the beads of his tasbeh.

  “What do you want?” he asked, wondering if he should turn her away without waiting for an answer. He’d already begun to suspect that he’d been too lenient on Zeba in the first few weeks of the case. He felt manipulated now, knowing that Gulnaz was the type of woman to drive a decent husband away. It gave him all the more reason to believe Zeba had begun to follow in her mother’s footsteps but then veered down an even deadlier path.

  “I need to speak to you.”

  “Quickly. I have things to do and you’re interrupting my evening.” He folded his arms across his chest, the beads draped over his elbow. Gulnaz took a deep breath and began the speech she’d rehearsed on her way to the judge’s home.

  “Qazi-sahib, you and I are from the same village. We met as children. We lived in the shadow of the same masjid and waded through the same streams. You’ve known my family and have been welcomed into our home. I am coming to you now to ask for mercy. My daughter suffered with that man, and it is no secret what kind of man he was.”

  “Because we are from the same village does not mean I should ignore a crime. It’s my duty as a judge to mete out justice.”

  “We all want justice.”

  “Then you’ll understand that I must do the right thing here. I know she’s your daughter, but I’m responsible for making sure the law is respected. We cannot afford to let our nation fall into anarchy again and this is where it starts.”

  “What about his crimes? His crimes went unpunished. He was a drinker, a man without a decent friend. He did not pray or fast or follow the words of God. A black carpet is not made white by washing. My daughter did her best to live with this man and be a good wife to him, but she could not absolve him of his sins.”

  “She didn’t need to absolve him. She could have left judgment up to the law or to Allah.”

  “I’m asking you to consider her children. Her son is devastated, her three daughters have no one now. They’ve lost both their parents. Do we really need more orphans in this world? Let them have their mother back, please!”

  “Criminals cannot hide behind their children.” It was not that he was a callous man. Of course he’d taken into consideration that Zeba had left four children behind when she’d been arrested. He also knew the youngest was barely a year old. He’d memorized these details the first day he reviewed her case and could almost picture her little ones, their anonymous faces sometimes replaced by those of his grandchildren. He kept these things to himself.

  “I do not have money to offer you, Qazi Najeeb. The days when my family lived comfortably are long gone. I’ve been alone for most of my adult life, and my son struggles to feed and clothe his family.”

  Najeeb grew angry at her implication.

  “I’ve not asked you for a penny! Khanum, I have always been grateful to your father, the murshid. He gave my own father much hope when we had nearly none. My brother survived his illness and is alive and well even now. Do you really think I would ask for money after all that?”

  Gulnaz said nothing. The sun had dipped behind wispy clouds, the sky a canvas streaked with paprika and saffron. The spiny profile of the mountains cut into the sunset. She wasn’t really asking for mercy. She was asking for justice.

  “There’s something else you need to know.”

  Gulnaz scanned the street and saw children playing with a bicycle tire nearby. There was no one within earshot.

  “It was someone else who actually killed him.”

  The judge nodded as if he’d expected Gulnaz to come up with something more unbelievable in retort.

  “Like who? I’d be very interested to know who else might have been there. No one’s said anything about someone else being there that day, including your daughter!”

  “If you hang my daughter, you’ll be making her a martyr.”

  “A martyr?” he scoffed. “A martyr for what?”

  “She is at the court’s mercy because she tried to save a life that day. What I’m about to tell you is the absolute truth though I cannot provide any evidence for it, and my daughter does not wish for anyone to find out about this. She’s not breathed a word of it to you since her arrest because she fears for the safety of a young girl.”

  Najeeb felt the ache in his chest start up again. He would eat a spoonful of yogurt before going to bed and see if that settled the acid.

  “Explain.”

  Gulnaz bit her lower lip. She had not bothered to tell Zeba she would be speaking to the judge and had certainly not discussed with her daughter what she would be telling him. But what would happen if Zeba were to find out about this conversation? She would either go right back to resenting her mother, which Gulnaz had become accustomed to, or she would be grateful. It was a chance she was willing to take.

  “The day came when Zeba learned what kind of man he truly was. She found him attacking a young girl in their own home, defiling a school-age girl. That, dear judge, is the heart of the matter. All that came after, including her enduring nineteen days of the shrine, was a woman trying to protect the honor of an innocent child.”

  Najeeb huffed in exasperation. At every turn, there was some new disparaging revelation about the dead man. Convenient, he thought, that the man was in no position to defend himself. His family didn’t do much to defend him either, probably because of the nasty rumors floating around about him and the desecration of the Qur’an.

  “A child,” Gulnaz repeated slowly for emphasis. “You’re a father and a decent man. Imagine how Zeba felt to see such an atrocity in her own home.”

  “Yes, Khanum, I am a father,” Najeeb said defiantly. She’d come here because she thought she could sway his thinking. She thought she could tease his decision in Zeba’s favor, but it wasn’t as simple as she’d anticipated. Qazi Najeeb felt a bit smug. He knew her better than she thought. “I have three sons and two daughters, all grown and raising families of their own. If there’s one thing I know as a father, it’s that a mother would do anything for her children.”

  Gulnaz pulled her shoulders back sharply. She shook her head.

  “You’ve misunderstood me.”

  “No, I don’t think I have,” Qazi Najeeb said.

  “I’ve come to you with the truth,” Gulnaz insisted.

  “You think you’re so smart. You always have.”

  Had she done her daughter any good by coming here or had she simply made matters worse? She would call Yusuf tonight and tell him what she had done. The judge knew it all now, for better or worse.

  The sun was nearly hidden behind the mountains now. Sunsets were odd in that sense—seeming to move in accelerated time. It was Wednesday, and this was the last sunset before the judge would announce Zeba’s sentence. After that, how many sunsets would her daughter have left and how quickly would they pass? Time had never pressed on Gulnaz’s heart as it did now that days and hours measured her daughter’s life. Gulnaz lowered her gaze slightly so the judge wouldn’t see that her bewitching eyes had misted.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, Qazi-sahib. That’s the problem. This world revolves around your opinion and your opinion alone.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything more to say on the subject,” he said, not knowing what to make of her comment.

  “No,” Gulnaz said slowly. Her throat was thick with angst, and it was an effort to get the words out. “I suppose there isn’t. But I’m sure you have plenty to think on tonight, so I’ll let you get back to your walk.”

  She had attempted to reason with this man, to appeal to his decency on behalf of her daughter. But so often reason did not seem to work with people, which was precisely why she’d spent a lifetime getting her point across by other means.

  She turned her back to the judge, and he resumed his walk. He was only a few meters from her when it happ
ened, close enough that she could hear the light clinks and his soft gasp. Tap, tap, tap. It was not unlike the sound of hail on a roof. Gulnaz did not have to turn to see it. She closed her eyes for a second and imagined the scene behind her back, feeling a twinge of satisfaction. She pictured Najeeb, mouth half open, nothing but a tassel in his open palm. How many times had he worked his way through those thirty-three perfectly oval stones? Still it came as a surprise to Qazi Najeeb, who gave such little thought to the thin line of thread that held the stones together.

  Hidden from view, the string of the tasbeh had frayed to nothing, sending the beads scattering to the hardened earth.

  CHAPTER 52

  “WHEN I WAS A GIRL, I BELIEVED THERE WOULD BE ONE JUDGMENT Day for us all,” Bibi Shireen said. She sat cross-legged next to Zeba, her upper half swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side. Her eyes fluttered as she recalled the stories she’d been told time and again in her youth. “There are the signs of Judgment Day: the earthquakes coming one after another, people disregarding their prayers, heathens running through the streets. The mountains would flatten and the moon would splinter to warn us that Judgment Day was closing in. Those beastly creatures, Yajuj and Majuj, would be let loose and swarm the earth and wreak havoc among us. I believed that the dead would be resurrected, all of us glowing with youth and waiting to cross the thorny Bridge of Sirat together. Some would fall into the hellfires below, but the righteous would reach the other side where Heaven awaited.”

  Nearly half the prisoners of Chil Mahtab had gathered in the yard, where they sat in a semicircle around Malika Zeba. Word had spread that she would be sentenced to hang in the afternoon. The temperature had dropped quite suddenly so that the women could now sit outside without fanning themselves. A half dozen rolled-up sleeves revealed Zeba’s name inscribed on forearms. The mood was somber.

  “And what do you believe now?” Latifa asked.

  Bibi Shireen’s eyes closed tightly. She dabbed at the corners of her eyelids with the end of her head scarf. Her voice was thin and choked.