A House Without Windows (16 page)

Gulnaz scowled.

“I used to expect him to walk through the door. Maybe next Friday, to return for
Jumaa
prayers. Or maybe in two weeks. Then I thought he might return for the Eid holiday, thinned from a month of fighting and fasting. Then the Russians were gone. I waited again, but there was no sign of him. And then the fighting started again, and I told myself he'd dug himself back into it.”

The civil war had meant there would be no peace even after the Russians had retreated. How could there be when the ethnic diversity of Afghanistan—barbed-wire distinctions and deep-rooted resentments—resurfaced? It was as if Afghanistan had been folded
up into itself at the borders. Without a common outside enemy, they turned on one another.

“Finally, I wondered if he would come before Rafi was married. I told myself that if he didn't return by Rafi's wedding, then he was surely dead. War or no war, how could a father not be present for his son's wedding?”

“But if he hadn't known about the wedding . . .”

“By then I was tired of making excuses. I counted him among the dead and so did you.”

It was true. When she cupped her hands in prayer, she always asked God to keep her father in heaven's gardens. It had been the safest assumption given the war's death toll.

“I kept his clothes at the house. There was always a place for him in case he did return. And I wept sometimes to see the emptiness where your father should have been, but they were bad times for us, too, and I had to think of you. I had two children to feed and only my sewing kept us alive. Your uncles hinted at me marrying one of them, but I told them I wouldn't marry again until your father's body was brought home.”

Zeba cringed at the thought.

“You never told me this.”

“There was no reason to tell you.”

Zeba let her fingers drop from the fence. Her arms were beginning to ache. It was hard to hold on for too long.

“Rafi knew?”

“Rafi was old enough and wise enough to see what was happening, but he only saw bits and pieces. I didn't want either of you to know.”

Zeba understood completely. How could she blame her mother for keeping this secret when she now wanted to spare her own children the shame of the truth she'd just learned?

“Did you go to my grandfather?”

Gulnaz shook her head.

“What could he have done for me? He was an old man by then,
and people had become convinced that he was a spy for the British. I grew up in that home, and I knew he was not as powerful as he would have had people believe. To this day he won't admit it, but I can tell you—that man was full of tricks.”

Zeba turned her gaze to the ground.

“Zeba-
jan,
there's a special kind of hurt in learning that your parents are not the angels or saviors you wish them to be. I know it well.”

Zeba wanted to speak. She wanted to tell her mother that she hadn't been resentful or disappointed in her, but the words wouldn't take shape in her mouth.

“We survive it. We all survive learning the truth about our parents because you can't stay a child forever.”

A light breeze blew between them, lifting wisps of Zeba's hair and tickling the dampness behind her neck. Gulnaz shifted her weight and brushed at her skirt.

“You couldn't save my father,” Zeba said blankly. Her legs were tucked under her, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her once-white pantaloons. “What makes you think you can help me now?”

“You are my daughter, Zeba. Just as I watched your grandfather practice his craft, you stood in my kitchen and watched everything I did. You know just how strong we were together. You saw what happened to those people who wished us harm. I kept you and your brother safe from the evil eye, and there were many around us. Whether or not you want to admit it, you know all my tricks. You know my secrets better than anyone, even if you turned your back to it. Nothing has changed. It's all at your feet.”

Zeba's head pounded. Her temples tightened under the sun's glare, but somehow, Gulnaz was barely squinting. There was so much about her mother that Zeba still didn't understand.

“I've brought you something,” Gulnaz whispered. “Not much, but at least a beginning.” With two fingers she reached into the inside of her dress sleeve, just past the cuff. She gave a slight tug and pulled out something Zeba recognized immediately, a
taweez
.

“Is this from Jawad?” Zeba let the folded blessing fall into the palm of her hand. Her fingers closed around it. She felt the years melt away. She was a child again, in awe of her mother who found ways to control the stars. This was precisely what she'd wanted. She'd wanted her mother to come and save her, to bend the winds in her favor this one time. If she were to dare to have hope, this was the form her hope would take.

“Of course it's from Jawad. I wanted a
taweez,
not a scrap of paper. Jawad is the only one with real talent.”

Zeba closed her eyes and pictured Jawad. Even when Zeba had become a young woman, Jawad had looked right past her to Gulnaz. Zeba could picture him, his back hunched over a tiny square, his pen marks deliberate. Every
taweez
he created infuriated Zeba's grandfather, Safatullah. Jawad was black magic while the
murshid
was God's light.

“You believe in his talismans.”

“Because I've seen them work. It's his craft. Your grandfather has his and I have mine. You can choose to believe in one or all of our methods but believing in something makes it a whole lot easier to rise in the morning.”

“My grandfather wouldn't be happy . . .”

“Your grandfather hasn't been happy in years. Once people started to doubt him, his heart grew weak and never recovered. I'm a respectful daughter so I keep my activities quiet, but I am also your mother. Doing what I can for you—that is all I need to be concerned with now.”

“Madar-
jan,
I'm grateful. But I don't want to feel . . . I mean, there's no reason for this to work,” Zeba said cautiously, eyeing her mother's face to gauge her reaction.

Gulnaz brought her face so close to the fence Zeba could feel her mother's breath on her cheek. They were together again, the feel of her mother's touch lingering on Zeba's skin. It was time moving forward and backward all at once.

“Tell me, my dear daughter, what have you got to lose?”

YOU'RE GOING TO READ YOURSELF BLIND.

Yusuf took off his glasses, the echo of his mother's voice in his mind. Reading in the dim light of the evenings did strain his eyes. He knew full well even as he rubbed them that he was only making matters worse.

His apartment was on the third floor of a three-story building. Off the living room was a balcony big enough to fit one folding chair. It boasted an unenticing view of another apartment building with curtained windows and clotheslines strung from balcony to balcony. There was a galley kitchen tucked to one side and a bedroom behind that. The bathroom was functional and simple. For Yusuf, who'd spent years with his siblings and parents in a cramped, two-bedroom Flushing apartment, these quarters were more than he needed.

Yusuf had set up a small table with two chairs in a corner of the living room. The set doubled as his kitchen table and home office. His living room had a glass coffee table and a threadbare sofa. The walls were bare except for a plastic framed picture of Mecca that had come with the apartment.

Kind of like hotel Bibles,
thought Yusuf when he'd first seen it and not because he had any disdain for his religion. Rather, he believed, he'd developed a certain objectivity to the world around him because he'd lived elsewhere.

He pulled a leather toiletry bag from the hall closet.

There were four bottles of eyedrops left. He cursed himself for not bringing more. He hadn't anticipated the effect the wind-spun dust would have on his eyes.

So much for being a native.

He shook the tiny white bottle and decided to save what remained. It would be months before he returned to the United States, and the air wasn't going to get any better.

Yusuf was accustomed to bouts of insomnia. Big cases kept him up, and he would go weeks at a time, sleeping just three hours a night. That was Yusuf's way. He made lists of precedents to look up, holes in his arguments, and research he still needed to complete. Statute by statute, point by point—it was a meticulous process, like extracting pomegranate seeds one by one. His restlessness was not entirely because of Zeba, though. Yesterday's conversation with Meena had taken him by surprise. He was doing his best to put it out of his mind and focus on the work at hand.

Yusuf poured himself another cup of black tea. Tea replaced coffee here, not because coffee couldn't be found but because the Afghan taste for tea had come back to him quickly.

A much needed draft slipped in through a half-open window. It carried the faint smell of blood from the butcher shop below the apartments.

Yusuf was only fifteen minutes away from the prison by taxi. Just fifteen minutes between him and Zeba, his reticent client. He was close enough that he could see her on a daily basis if he chose to, but he didn't bother. He thought that if he pulled back, she might realize how badly she needed his help. He wasn't usually a fan of playing games, but defending Zeba required creativity on all fronts. Her chances of beating the charges were slim, at best.

Since he wasn't with his client very often, Yusuf spent his days digging up what statutes he could and poring over law books. Afghanistan's legal infrastructure had been destroyed over the years, but a team of
international players had taken on the rebuilding of it. They'd created a reasonable set of laws for the country—a playbook he understood. The real justice system, though, was much different. People didn't play by the rules. Even some of the higher courts judged without jurisprudence. Outside of the major cities, there was no true rule of law.

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. “Tell 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.