A House Without Windows (25 page)

What was I supposed to do? He was just talking to her!

Walid. She was just a girl. And now that poor woman . . .

Walid was smart enough to know what he was and what he wasn't. He was a simple man who sold nuts and fruits. He worked with his
back and his hands to make barely enough to feed his family. He was no oracle. He was no authority figure. He resented his wife for implying he could have done something more even when that very thought had nagged at him since that awful day. If he hadn't known what was to happen, why had the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention to hear that man speak to the girl?

If Walid hadn't known, why had he turned away so quickly? Why had he pushed his cart back down the street in such a hurry, his eyes glued to the nuts and raisins as if they were the ones that needed saving? God shouldn't have put him on that street that day. There was no reason for him to be there. He'd barely sold more than a few handfuls of anything there in months. It had been a mistake.

YUSUF WAS WATCHING HIM, PATIENTLY WAITING FOR WALID TO
break the silence, a silence that had gone on so long it was obvious he had something to say. The streets were unexpectedly empty, and the sun hung high in the sky, undimmed by the wispy clouds. There wasn't even the faintest stir of dust.

“I can tell you this . . .”

But what could he say? He didn't need to say which girl it was. He didn't need to lead Yusuf back to her house to dig up things that shouldn't see the light of day. The woman. How could he help that woman?

“Kamal, God rest his soul,” Walid said awkwardly, “was not a right man. I knew that. Other people knew that. I'm sure his wife knew it, too.”

Yusuf felt something pull at his stomach. He tried not to appear too excited. He nodded, a small gesture but one that Walid seemed to need in order to continue. Like an exhalation, a breeze drifted through, causing the dust to rise and settle around their ankles. It was there, under the gaze of the round and brilliant sun, that Walid began to unravel the story of Zeba and Kamal.

MEZHGAN, IN A FLURRY OF HUGS AND KISSES AND PROMISES TO
reunite beyond the prison's bars, had been returned to her family. They would have a real wedding in a month, but for now, the judge had been appeased by the formal union between her and her beloved. Before she'd gone, she'd pressed her cheek against Zeba's and tried to kiss her hands though Zeba had pulled away.

“I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am,” she'd said. “And just to show you how much you mean to me, I want to show you what I've done.”

She rolled up the sleeve of her dress and Zeba gasped. On the pale flesh was a fresh tattoo, black writing raised from the skin and haloed in red. It was as clumsy as a child's scrawl but clear enough to read—
Zeba
. Zeba couldn't believe the girl's foolishness, to sit while another prisoner had pierced her flesh with a pin, dripping melted rubber thinned with shampoo into each divot, to embed the letters of her name into her young body.

“Mezhgan, why?” Zeba had been baffled. “Why would you put that on your arm?”

Plenty of women had tattoos in Chil Mahtab—names of lovers, hearts, and other symbols. But Zeba had never expected to see her own name carved into another person's flesh.

“I've never met a woman as strong as you,” Mezhgan had pro
fessed. “There's something special about you. I knew that from the day they brought you into the cell. You have magic. You're powerful. Just look what you've done for me! And I know that whatever you did to your husband, you did with God on your side. Every woman in here agrees with me. Every single one.”

ZEBA WATCHED HER TWO REMAINING ROOMMATES SITTING
cross-legged on the floor of their cell. It was morning and an odd time for a game of cards, but Mezhgan's absence left a void none of them had anticipated and there were few ways to fill emptiness in prison. Latifa had borrowed a deck of cards from a woman whose cell was on the second floor. She'd been jailed for leaving the husband who had stabbed her in the belly. Her neighbor, a girl she'd known for a few years, had been jailed as well for helping her to escape.

“There's absolutely no way I'm letting you deal the cards again,” Nafisa declared with exasperation.

Latifa's eyebrows shot up jovially. The cell was stifling and hot.

“Accusing me of cheating? Don't flatter yourself. I don't need to cheat to beat you at this game. You're even worse than Mezhgan was.”

Nafisa held her fan of cards over her heart and looked wistfully at Mezhgan's vacant bed.

“I am so happy for her,” she said. “She's going to be married soon to her sweetheart. I do miss her, though.”

Latifa threw a queen of hearts onto Nafisa's nine of hearts.

“Killed that one, too,” she said smugly before slapping a jack of diamonds in front of her frustrated cellmate. “Don't bother missing her. I doubt she's wasted a second thinking about us.”

“What a spiteful thing to say!” Nafisa snapped.

“But it's true! What would you do if you were released today? I'll tell you what you would do,” Latifa said with the conviction of a politician. “You would turn your back on this place and everyone in it. You would never let the name Chil Mahtab cross your lips again.
You would deny you'd ever been here, just as you deny what got you sent here in the first place.”

“I would not!” Nafisa huffed, with equal conviction. “I would never turn my back on you, Latifa. And if you were a nice person, I would write to you and visit you, maybe even bring you chocolates from my
shirnee
whenever that happens. I wouldn't want to forget you, even if you do cheat like a thief.”

Latifa scoffed and shifted her hips on the ground. She kept her eyes on her cards, but her face had softened.

This early game of cards was not as relaxing as Latifa had promised it would be—not when there was still a prison full of women looking to Zeba for help she couldn't provide. If she were all that powerful, she should have been able to do some good for herself. The women of Chil Mahtab were not bothered by that small point, though. Their need to believe in Zeba loomed so large that it eclipsed all skepticism. Zeba thought, again, of her name carved on Mezhgan's young forearm like a blood tribute.

When Asma, the guard, came rapping at their door, Zeba was not at all disappointed.

“Zeba, come. Your lawyer's here to meet with you.”

Zeba wasn't expecting Yusuf back so soon, less than a week since he'd last been to see her. Each time they met, he left appearing frustrated but determined. She did not know what he did in the intervals between their visits and wasn't sure if she wanted to ask.

“My lawyer? Are you sure?”

Asma laughed.

“Get up, Zeba. No reason to keep the handsome gentleman waiting.”

YUSUF WAS PACING THE ROOM WHEN ZEBA ENTERED. HIS BAG
hung from the back of the chair, and there was his yellow notepad with his indecipherable scribbling. The top page looked softly crin
kled and Zeba would have bet anything at that moment that Yusuf had fallen asleep with his face pressed to it.

He looked at her, grim-faced.

“We've got to talk, Khanum Zeba. We've got to talk.”

Zeba slid into the chair across from Yusuf's bag. Asma lingered at the door until Yusuf sharply thanked her for bringing Zeba in for the meeting.

Asma's ears perked at the tone of his voice, but she closed the door behind her and took a few steps down the hall. Zeba watched her walk away from the glass-enclosed interview room and turned her attention back to Yusuf. He had shadows under his eyes.

“What's going on? Has something happened?”

Yusuf shot her a look of annoyance.

“I've asked only that you be open with me. I told you from the beginning that if you let me in, if you shared everything with me, I might be able to help you. You could have saved us both a lot of trouble if you would've just trusted me from the beginning. That's the only way this”—he waved a finger back and forth between him and Zeba—“can work.”

“Say what you want to say.”

Yusuf stopped short. Zeba breathed a little easier. His pacing always made her nervous. Yusuf pulled the chair back quickly, its legs scraping against the floor tiles. His bag slipped off the back, but he didn't bother to pick it up.

“I went to your village,” he said, looking straight at her.

Zeba felt a knot in her stomach. She waited.

“I went to your town and I went to your house. I knocked on your neighbors' doors. There's a lovely woman down the street from you who's watched you walk past her house while she tends to her plants.”

Zeba knew precisely who Yusuf had spoken to. On two occasions, Zeba had herded her children out of the house rather abruptly. Those were days when Kamal had come home with red-rimmed eyes and heavy feet. He'd been violent but in a directionless way that made
Zeba frightened for the children. The drink gave Kamal bursts of energy followed by bouts of exhaustion. Knowing he would not bother to chase after them, she'd thrown a head scarf on and scurried past that woman's house, tears streaming down her face as she anxiously looked over her shoulder. She'd seen the woman looking out into the street as if she'd been waiting for just such a curious sight to come by.

“There's more,” Yusuf said. “I talked to a man who was outside your house the day Kamal was killed. He was just outside your door that afternoon. He says he knows what happened.”

A man. Zeba thought back to that day. What could a man have seen or heard from outside their walls? He couldn't have seen the hatchet go into Kamal's head.

“What man? Is he saying I killed Kamal?” Zeba was on the brink of rage, a sudden boiling anger at the thought that a man would step forward to further condemn her. “I don't know who he is, but he's a liar!”

“The man saw something. He saw someone go into your home, Khanum Zeba.”

Zeba remained in her seat, her lips pressed together into a thin, pink line. Had a man really seen her? Had he told anyone else? All the days she'd spent away from her children and all the days ahead that she would fester here without them—all this could not be for nothing. She could not let Yusuf or this man, whoever he was, render her sacrifice meaningless.

By the severe look on Zeba's face, Yusuf felt any doubt he'd harbored in Walid's story melt away.

“I don't really feel like talking now,” Zeba said with quiet resolve. She crossed her legs at the ankle and kept her fingers tightly intertwined, an effort to prevent any part of her body from revealing more than had already been revealed. If only Yusuf could understand how badly she wanted to tell him. But it seemed the truth would be of little benefit—not to people who deemed her testimony worth only a fraction of a man's. In a flicker of despondency, the lines came to her:

“What good is a woman's telling of truth

When nothing she says will be taken as proof?”

Yusuf looked at her quizzically.

“Where did you hear that?”

“The words are mine,” she said, emboldened. “But every woman knows them.”

She was right, he admitted to himself. A woman's word held little value here. Women themselves seemed to hold little value here. But Yusuf couldn't stop now. He would press her because he wanted to get to the heart of the story. This would be the moment that redefined the case. Zeba would break down and be completely honest with him and he would put together a magnificent defense, the likes of which had never been seen in this town, maybe in this country.

“Listen, this is a whole new case now. I've got—”

Zeba's head lifted suddenly. Urgently.

“Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“My son, Basir. Did you see him?” She was leaning across the table, her palms pressing onto its wooden surface.

“No, I didn't see him. Did you hear what I said?”

“Did you hear anything about him? Are they all right? Did anyone tell you about him and the girls? You said you talked to people. People must know how they're doing.”

Yusuf took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. She was entitled to inquire about her children, even if that meant diverting his questions.

“I'm sorry, but I think Kamal's family is keeping them at home. I didn't get much information from anyone, but no one said anything worrisome either. I'm sure they're as well as they possibly could be given the circumstances.”

“Yes, they're probably fine,” she mumbled.

“Khanum Zeba, it's really important for us to focus on you now,” he said gently. “I think there's a way to defend you.”

It occurred to Zeba that just a few moments ago she had been watching a stupid card game. How could she have gone from that moment to this one without much warning?

“I know about the girl.”

Zeba stared at the table until the grain of the wood blurred. She leaped ahead, skipping his questions and arriving at the inevitable conclusion.

“Even if I am released from here, I won't get my children back. If I cannot have my children, there is no reason for me to leave this place.”

Yusuf leaned back in his chair. She was right. The odds of Kamal's family returning the children to their mother if she were released were slim. Yusuf spoke again.

“Khanum, I said I know about the girl.”

The girl. All this because of a little girl who had been stupid enough to get within reach of Kamal. Zeba didn't know how he'd lured her into their yard but he had. The poor thing had been so frightened. Zeba could still see her eyes, wild and round with shame. She had looked so much like her own daughters. It could have been Shabnam or Kareema. Feeling took so much less time and energy than thinking. Zeba hadn't paused to ask questions. She'd seen everything she needed to on the girl's face, the desperate way she clutched her pants in her hand.

And Kamal. Kamal had stood before her, his back to the afternoon sun. He'd been nothing but a silhouette, the dark shape of a man she hardly recognized. He'd dusted his shirt off. He'd been flustered, nothing more. He'd started mumbling something, but Zeba couldn't hear him over the roaring in her ears, loud enough to drown out any reasons he might have offered for her to ignore the gruesome scene she'd just stumbled upon.

Kamal wanted her to be something she wasn't. He wanted her to be the woman who would look away forever.

But she'd seen everything. And Rima was only a few meters away. How could she explain this to the girls? She would never explain it to them. It would be buried with her.

So much had been decided in the space of seconds, in a span of time too short to accommodate thoughts but with only enough room for reflexes.

When had she picked up the hatchet? Zeba closed her eyes. She couldn't say for certain. She didn't even remember seeing it leaning against the side of the house. Kamal must have left it there, though Zeba couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him hold it. How often had she asked him to put it away so that the children wouldn't hurt themselves with it?

Yusuf watched his client withdraw. He let her be, hoping that her thoughts would lead her to a place of use to him.

“The girl, Khanum. She was the reason for all this.”

Was he asking her or seeking confirmation?

She was too young to be so damaged. Had she been the first one? It was too late to ask Kamal. Was that the first time he'd hurt that girl? By the look on her face, Zeba would guess so.

“There was no girl,” Zeba said flatly.

“There was no girl?”

“There was no girl,” Zeba said, each word steeped in resolve.

Yusuf sat directly across from her. Their eyes met, each daring the other to back down.

“But there was, and that girl changes everything.”

“Did you talk with anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”