A House Without Windows (14 page)

When she and her mother entered the women's hall, Gulnaz's mouth dropped. The music was so loud, she could almost feel the rhythm of the
tabla
beating within her chest. Thin vases holding red roses sat atop round tables draped with pink tablecloths. The large banquet hall had been partitioned by a heavy curtain that ran the length of the room. The women, protected from the view of the men, shook their shoulders and let their hips undulate to the dance music, the quick tempo carrying them across the dance floor, spinning them and bringing them to a halt as if it were an actual dance partner. Giddy faces glistened with sweat. They laughed and squealed at each other's moves.

The older women and bashful adolescents stayed in their seats and clapped in encouragement or looked on with interest. Mothers of young men watched with a keen eye, looking for a girl who was beautiful but not too haughty, someone who danced well but not too suggestively, a girl who glowed with innocence and virtue and fertility.

Gulnaz and her mother wove through the maze of tables and chairs to join their relatives, seated far enough away from a cluster of vibrating speakers that they could have some conversation. The sharp sound of the electronic keyboard, a synthesizer blending familiar beats, and the melody of the up-tempo song echoed through the room.

Gulnaz's eyes scanned the hall, drinking in the sounds, so much louder than anything she could remember. She brushed wisps of hair from her forehead, enjoying the clink of the bangles, the feel of the cool metal against her wrist. She felt her mother's hand against her back, guiding her to the table. Gulnaz kept her eyes lowered, playing her part to her mother's satisfaction.

Her dress was the color of a peacock's feathers, blended together in an exotic and rich cotton. Narrow sleeves ended just below her elbow and the narrow waistline opened into a long, generous skirt that billowed as she walked. A panel of gold embroidery and small mirrors covered her budding chest. The regal stitching swirled from the shoulders to the cuffs, which were lined in a satin of the deepest emerald green. The dress was extravagant but, on some holidays, the
murshid
chose to spoil his daughter.

Gulnaz crossed the room, heads turning as she placed one foot in front of the other. Her dark hair fell gently against her shoulders, her eyes vibrant and striking. Gulnaz's lips curled into a shy, barely noticeable smile. By the time she reached her table, Gulnaz had become acutely aware that her beauty was magnetic, unmatched, and, most important, powerful.

IN THE THREE WEEKS AFTER THE WEDDING, SAFATULLAH'S HOME
was visited by a flood of callers, unusual even for the esteemed
murshid
. What was most peculiar was that it was women knocking on the gates and that they were asking to see the
murshid
's wife. Gulnaz's mother would push her amused daughter into the next room or out of the house while women showered her with platitudes.

Gulnaz would smile coyly from behind a closed door or with an ear pressed to the clay wall. She giggled at the flattery, the way the mothers lauded their sons' good looks, intelligence, and sense of honor. Sometimes she would slip past the room just to tempt them with a glimpse. Why bother with magic when she could make grown women bend and jump just by showing a sliver of her face?

The suitors were plentiful and persistent. Gulnaz's dark reputation was a thing of the past, a childish phase, a distraction to keep the suitors at bay. A few of Gulnaz's aunts and cousins watched the wave of interest with suspicion. They explained the phenomenon in whispers and knowing glances: Gulnaz had bewitched the village.

Gulnaz became the most sought after young woman in town, and her parents felt compelled to wed her soon lest that desirability backfire. Surely, those who had been turned away would be disappointed, and spiteful tongues could make Gulnaz out to be a heartbreaker or a temptress.

Gulnaz's mother spoke to her about the suitors. She described their families, the work each boy was able to do to provide for a family. Gulnaz would shrug her shoulders. She had little interest in a man who would come home with hands calloused by metalwork or one who aspired to follow in the devout footsteps of her father, the
murshid
. She scowled at the proposition of a boy who was intent on becoming an army general. She had no use for a man who liked to shout orders all day long.

Gulnaz's mother grew impatient with her nay-saying. They had turned away too many families, and she was growing anxious.

The tailor's family didn't think they stood a chance. They were nowhere near as well-to-do as others in town. Their eldest son, a young man of twenty years, had been blessed with handsome features but was soft-spoken and didn't know what to do with his hands when he wasn't holding a needle and thread. His mother had come alone twice already. When she came with her son, Gulnaz went outside the house to steal a glance through the living room window. The boy's mother had her back to the cinched lace curtains and didn't see Gulnaz's emerald irises peering curiously through the dust-spackled pane. Gulnaz's mother, on the other hand, was duly horrified to see her daughter's face in the glass. She refilled the teacups for her guests, praying that they wouldn't turn their heads and spot the onlooker. The boy sat at an angle, staring appropriately at
the carpet before him and appearing like the well-mannered young man his mother promised he would be.

He was actually fairly handsome, Gulnaz decided. She liked the softness in his voice and the way his fingers toyed with the teacup in his hands. He was gentle. He would not tell her what to be.

Look at me,
Gulnaz willed.
Let me see your eyes.

Gulnaz's mother's shoulders were stiff. She nodded her head politely as the boy's mother spoke, though barely a word of what she was saying registered. She was preoccupied with how she would explain her daughter's behavior should the tailor's wife turn her head round.

Gulnaz pressed her fingertips to the glass.

Come on, now. Do you really want to be my husband for all our days? Let me see who you are.

The boy's back straightened. His chin lifted slightly.

Gulnaz's eyes widened.

Look this way. Here I am if you want to see me. Tell me you will treat me like a queen and I will nod my head and give myself to you.

Why was she doing this? He wasn't the most handsome man to come courting. He was not the boldest or most accomplished, either. But she was taken by his demeanor and the patience it took to thread a needle, to measure fabric by the centimeter, to stitch a perfect hem. He was the type of man who would appreciate her. He would let Gulnaz be Gulnaz.

Gulnaz sighed. She needed to look into his eyes to know. She needed him to listen now if she were to believe he would listen any other day.

Am I what you want with your whole heart? Do you believe it's our kismet to be man and wife? Look at me if we're meant to be.

The man of thread was pulled by an invisible one that led to the window, to the unimaginably beautiful young woman beckoning him to prove his devotion. His eyes lifted from the carpet, his hands relaxed, and he looked over his mother's shoulder.

Gulnaz gasped and put a hand over her mouth, as if she'd been speaking her bold thoughts out loud.

When he smiled, Gulnaz whirled away from the window and pressed her back to the wall of the house. Her breathing quickened as she inched back to the glass to peek in again. His eyes! They were as kind as Gulnaz had hoped, but they also shone with something Gulnaz couldn't name, and Gulnaz had a weakness for mystery.

Gulnaz's mother was wringing her hands and doing her best to keep the boy's mother looking straight ahead. This behavior was unforgivable.

The boy's eyes were again downcast, but there was a glimmer of mischief on his face.

Yes,
Gulnaz thought.
You, I accept. I will be your beloved, your fiancée, your jewel.

Within six months, the
murshid
's daughter was engaged and married to a promising young tailor who would later prance out of her life irreverently, leaving her with two children and plenty of reasons to hate the world around her.

ZEBA FELT THE HOLLOW ACHE IN HER STOMACH BUT COULDN'T
bring herself to eat anything. Her cellmates had nudged her for breakfast and lunch, but she'd ignored them, barely grunting a reply to their concern. By this evening, they were indifferent. She was a grown woman and if she didn't have enough sense to eat, they would gladly split her share.

Yusuf was young and inexperienced, she knew. He had noble intentions, the noblest intentions Zeba had ever seen, but intentions accomplished little in Afghanistan. Guns, money, power, pride—these were the currencies of this country. That glint in his eye the last time they'd spoken had only made him look pathetic to his client—like a child who'd spotted a toy in a minefield.

Zeba couldn't save him. She could barely save herself.

She thought of her mother. The notorious Gulnaz. It was a full year ago that Gulnaz had come knocking on her door, her piercing eyes scanning their home. She told Zeba she'd sensed something was awry. She'd been having terrible dreams, images of the children rolling off the roof and falling to the ground, of Basir's foot being run over by a car and Kareema being kidnapped by a caravan of
kuchi
nomads. She was waking up in the middle of the night with a terrible feeling.

“Madar-
jan,
I'm a grown woman. I won't be scared by your nightmares anymore,” Zeba said, though mother and daughter both knew
she didn't mean it. Zeba hadn't been raised in any ordinary family. She'd been raised in the shadow of Gulnaz, the
jadugar,
and Safatullah, the great
murshid
. Nightmares weren't just bad dreams—they were omens. Feelings were divinings. These were gifts of knowledge, and ignoring them constituted a sin.

Gulnaz had opened the purse strings on a pouch and let a handful of
espand
fall into her palm.

“Let me
espand
these children . . . and you. At least let me do that much for my grandchildren.”

Zeba had watched complacently as her mother tossed the seeds into a small pot and held it over a fire until a curl of smoke rose from the lip of the vessel. Gulnaz moved the seeds around with a stick, giving them all a chance to smolder into incense. The smoke grew denser and the pungent smell of the seeds filled the back room of the house and drifted into the courtyard.

“Do you see?” Gulnaz had said, clucking her tongue in exasperation. “Look at how thick the smoke is! Just think how much evil eye has been cast upon your home and your children.”

The smoke was a precise measure to Gulnaz, who could almost assign a weight in ounces to
nazar
.

“Look at that!” She'd pointed, her finger piercing a rising plume. “See the way the smoke bends and curls? It's the letter
beh,
I swear. There's a
kof
for Kareema. And a
meem
.”

Gulnaz had found enough letters from the children's names that she was convinced her
espand
was speaking volumes, proving just how much evil eye had been directed at her grandchildren.

“Madar, this is ridiculous. It's only
espand,
” Zeba had protested.

“You're being stubborn. I'm only trying to help you. I know something's wrong. I can
feel
it in my blood. I'm trying to warn you for your own sake, for my grandchildren's sake.”

“There's nothing going on here. We're fine. The children are fine. What can I do anyway? What do you want me to do about your dreams, Madar-
jan
?”

Zeba shook her head. As a young child, Zeba had seen her mother as a magical being. She could do things that no one else could do. When her brother had gotten bad marks from his math teacher, one visit to the school by Gulnaz brought his numbers right up. When she overheard a neighbor's wife speaking ill of her family, Gulnaz sprinkled a line of dried, crushed pepper at their gate. When the neighbor's cow was found lifeless the next morning, Zeba felt protected and safe.

Zeba had watched her mother, squatted by the kitchen fire as she heated the herb leaves they'd gathered together. She'd stood by as her mother smeared a person's photograph with ashes from the fire. Gulnaz had no book of recipes; none of her tricks were written down. She never formally taught Zeba any of her spells. She made Zeba curious by grumbling about the evil and whispering about the magic. She made it enticing enough that Zeba came to her, begging to be let in to this secret and powerful world.

When they were with the rest of the family, Zeba could sense that the other women bit their tongues around Gulnaz. Politely enough, they smiled and offered her and Rafi sweets. Gulnaz would shake her head on her way home and mutter that she could see right through their pleasantries and that she was no fool. A little sugar sweetened a child, she knew, which was why she stirred a spoonful into their milk. Too much, though, had the opposite effect and would sour a character forever.

Zeba thought her mother so insightful. People really were trying to ruin them. She would remember this as she laid a handful of wild flowers at someone's door, smiling to think of the dog urine she and her mother had dipped them in that morning.

After Zeba's father disappeared, Gulnaz became even more consumed with her sorcery. Before long, it seemed more important than anything Zeba or her siblings were doing. When Gulnaz's husband vanished, her suspicions about others casting evil eyes upon them were confirmed. And worse was the realization she'd failed to protect her home. Zeba recalled lingering in the corner of the kitchen
while her mother chopped fingernail trimmings into tiny little pieces, so incredibly angry at her sister-in-law. She fumed as she mixed the trimmings into a bowl of ground beef, onions, and spices. It was Zeba who carried the meatballs to her aunt's house, ashamed to look her aunt in the eye but also afraid to disobey her mother's instructions. She had a terrible feeling in the pit of her belly as she walked away, imagining her aunt eating bites of tainted meatballs between squares of folded bread.

Zeba couldn't begin to understand what her father's disappearance had done to her mother. She had no way of knowing how much her mother and father had once loved each other or how she worried about him in the days, weeks, months, and years after he left. Her mother had grieved quietly, the only thing she'd ever done quietly, not knowing if her husband was alive or dead. Zeba had asked Gulnaz only once about her father.

“It was the work of someone with an eye more evil than mine,” Gulnaz had hissed. She'd stopped slicing the crowns off the eggplants. She held her sharpest kitchen knife in her hand, its blade reflecting the afternoon sunlight.

“But Madar-
jan,
was he acting strange before he left? Khala Meeri said that he'd been saying odd things . . .”

“May God blind your Khala Meeri for speaking of him that way! She had her own reasons for hating to see us happy. She couldn't take it! She just wants me to suffer the way she has. That woman—oh, the things I could do to her if I wanted to. I've shown her mercy but sometimes I wonder why. Ten years I've lived without a husband. And she . . . she lives with your overbearing uncle in that house with those children that run around like street urchins and don't even bother to say hello.”

By the time Zeba was an adolescent, she had had enough of her mother's trickeries. She knew Gulnaz's reputation and resented that she was made part of her evil spells. She was angry that people were starting to look at her as an extension of her mother, as her mother's
accomplice. Zeba didn't want to be feared or shunned, as her mother was. Zeba wanted to be ordinary. She wanted to be part of the rest of the family. If only her mother would stop looking at the world through such suspicious eyes, Zeba had thought, they might stand a chance.

I am nothing like my mother,
she would tell her adolescent self.

She turned away when her mother busied herself with new trickery. The first time she stood up to her mother, Zeba's voice shook. She had never been a disobedient child, and defiance did not come easy to her.

“I won't . . . I won't, Madar-
jan
! If you want to send those cookies to Khala Ferooz, then you'll have to take them yourself . . .” she said, her voice trailing off so it wouldn't break completely.

“Zeba! Take these cookies over to their house right now. Stop with this nonsense!”

“I will not do it, Madar-
jan
. I don't want to be part of this. I can't stand it, all this evil!”

Zeba wished her father would walk through the door. If he would only come home, her mother might stop spinning sandstorms. It was sad to think, but her behavior might very well have been the reason he'd chosen to leave and join the fighting.

“Evil? You think I'm evil? Have you no idea what evil goes on out there, really? Have you not seen enough to understand?”

Their relationship never recovered. Zeba knew her mother no longer trusted her. Gulnaz would watch her daughter from the corner of her eye, chewing her lip. Zeba could feel the angry heat between them, and while she had no doubt her mother loved her, she couldn't help but wonder if her mother would ever turn the magic against her. When Safatullah, her maternal grandfather, and her father's family joined together to announce Zeba's engagement, she was not as infuriated as Gulnaz. As much as she loved Rafi, it was difficult to live in the shadowy world her mother created. Marriage would be an escape.

NOW ZEBA MISSED HER MOTHER. SHE COULD FEEL THE COILS OF
the prison cot pressing against her ribs, nudging her to admit what lurked in her mind.

Have you no idea what evil goes on out there, really? I'm trying to warn you for your own sake, for my grandchildren's sake.

She'd pushed Gulnaz away. Zeba felt her chest tighten with regret.

When her mother had seen the darkness, Zeba had been haughty, determined not to drive her husband away the way Gulnaz had. She would not wind up a woman alone, without the respectability of a widow or a wife. She remembered very clearly those days when whispers kept her mother shuttered in their stifling home. Zeba refused to become that woman.

But in the wake of her mother's visit, the darkness slipped its long, opportunistic fingers around her neck. If only Zeba hadn't closed the door on her mother.

Zeba couldn't bring herself to shift on the cot. She wanted to feel uncomfortable, to feel something pierce her skin. She pressed her temple against the mattress, tightening the muscles of her back and neck to dig her head as far in as she could.

She'd only wanted to be part of an ordinary family. Her only wish had been to be loved, not feared or despised. She'd learned all she'd needed from her mother, from the treacherous Gulnaz with the dazzling green eyes.

She should have acted. Maybe she still could.

Zeba sat up suddenly, her pulse throbbing a new, upbeat tempo.