A House Without Windows (39 page)

Yusuf wiggled his toes. His legs were starting to ache.

“You know, I didn't expect this.” Sultana pushed away from the table. Her face was stony with resentment. “I expected better from you, honestly. I'd heard you were trying hard to build a real case for your client. Really trying to defend her instead of moving from her file to the next dismal imprisoned woman.”

“What are you talking about?” Yusuf was thrown by her reaction. He leaned forward, stealing a glance toward the glass door to see if any of the guards might be eavesdropping.

“You want a reporter to do some dirty work for you? That's not me. Rumors have done enough damage in this country—they're a poison. Look at the women in this prison. You've seen their files, haven't you? How many of them are here just because someone pointed a finger? I'm not going to be part of spreading another lie just because you're about to lose your case. If Zeba doesn't want to talk about her husband that doesn't mean you can come up with something to justify another lynching like they tried to do in Kabul. I was there, you know. I covered the protests after that woman was murdered in the street because of a rumor. Thousands came out against street justice.”

“Look, that's not what I was trying to do. Sultana, just let me explain.”

She stood from her chair and shook her head indignantly. She picked up the strap of her bag, nearly knocking her chair over in the
process. Yusuf stood as well, his hands remaining planted on the table. This had gone all wrong.

“Just give me five minutes.”

“Good luck with your case, Yusuf. Sorry this has been a waste of time.”

YUSUF BIT THE END OF HIS PENCIL, A RESURRECTED HABIT FROM
high school. Qazi Najeeb had summoned both lawyers to return to his office on Monday for the verdict and sentencing. Both sides had presented their entire cases, and he had had ample time to deliberate.

Today was Monday.

Yusuf sat in the floral armchair with Zeba on a wooden chair beside him. The prosecutor took the seat opposite Yusuf with a nod. Yusuf stuck his gnawed pencil in his bag, the taste of metal and rubber still in his mouth. The prosecutor settled into the chair and placed a folder of papers onto the table. The two men looked at each other and exchanged half smiles.

“Whatever it is, it'll be over today,” the prosecutor said, shrugging.

Yusuf nodded. He'd been utterly unimpressed with the prosecutor's halfhearted approach, but he'd been judging the man by his own set of criteria.

“I . . . I have to tell you, the way you use the letter of the law . . . I've not seen anyone work so hard to defend a criminal.”

“She's not a criminal yet,” Yusuf quickly corrected. “That's the point.”

The prosecutor nodded deferentially. He would humor Yusuf for today.

“You know what I mean.”

Qazi Najeeb entered and moved past the two lawyers and Zeba to take his seat behind the desk. Both young men put their hands on their knees and started to rise when he entered. Zeba saw no point, given that the judge's back was turned to her already. She remained in her seat.

“
Salaam wa-alaikum.
” Their greetings were synchronized.

“
Wa-alaikum,
” replied Qazi Najeeb. “Take your seats.”

The judge leaned back in his chair and grew quietly pensive. He slipped his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out his
tasbeh
and held it in the palm of his left hand. He stretched the moment as long as he could, wanting everyone to feel the importance of today's meeting.

“It's time to bring this matter to a close,” the judge said, turning his attention to Zeba. “The two attorneys here have argued about the facts of this case a great deal. We've taken a lot of time to be sure the proceedings fell in line with the letter of the law. Even if we are not Kabul, we were no less diligent.”

Zeba sat with her hands clasped on her lap. She watched the judge, but blinked and looked downward often so as not to appear too brazen. Qazi Najeeb sat back in his chair and considered her for a moment.

“You are not the same woman who was brought into this office months ago.”

Yusuf's body tensed.

“You came in here months ago looking like you'd been overcome by djinns. You were like an animal, nothing human about you. I can see now that you feel differently. This has nothing to do with your guilt or innocence and everything to do with what kind of person you are.”

Yusuf felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Zeba did not flinch. In fact, her shoulders pulled back a bit and her chin lifted. She did not appreciate being compared to an animal even if the judge talked of a transformation since then. She knew he was right, though. She'd been dragged out of his office kicking and screaming, feeling a wildness
in her bones because she no longer knew what or who she was. What mother would not go mad if she were pulled away from her children just when they needed her most? Complacency in that moment—that was the true madness.

“You're not saying much. You never have throughout this trial. All we know about you is your signed confession,” the
qazi
said.

“That's not her confession,” Yusuf interjected, raising an index finger.

The judge raised his hand in Yusuf's direction. Yusuf bit his lower lip.

“You think you control us, don't you?” asked the judge. “You think, like your mother, that you can move the world in whichever direction you'd like because you are who you are. You're the granddaughter of a
murshid
who has sometimes been described as holy and sometimes as a spy for the enemy states. You're the daughter of a
jadugar
—”

Zeba tried not to flinch, but the judge caught the way her muscles twitched at the mention of her mother's sorcery.

“Oh? Did you think I didn't know about her tricks? She's been a crafty woman all her life.” Qazi Najeeb looked away and sucked his teeth. Why couldn't he see Gulnaz as just another plotting, graying woman? He scowled and thought of the ungodly way she commanded attention.

“Qazi-
sahib,
the reputations or habits of her grandfather or mother shouldn't have anything to do with this case,” Yusuf said in a controlled voice. Defending his client without infuriating the judge was an art form that required continued practice.

The judge didn't bother to acknowledge Yusuf's comment but resumed speaking without further comment about Gulnaz, who seemed just as important to him as Zeba.

“You, Khanum, have been arrested for murdering your husband. Is there a worse crime? Is there something worse than depriving your children of their father . . . of . . . of depriving his family of their brother? Is there something worse than taking the life of a person?”

Zeba felt her body tighten with resignation. In a matter of moments, few or many, he could declare her fit to be executed for Kamal's murder. Her children's faces appeared behind her closed eyelids.

Yusuf saw her withdraw and instinctively said a prayer. He wanted to put a hand over hers but resisted. She was not who the judge thought she was. She was the bravest woman he'd met, willing to submit herself to the judge's mercy to save a young girl from having her life destroyed before it had even begun. He had profound respect for this woman whose behavior had maddened him at times.

“You've given me no explanation for why you killed your husband that day.”

Yusuf closed his eyes. He could not look at Zeba. Not yet. A smile broke out on the prosecutor's face, his head bobbing ever so slightly in vindication. He was pleasantly surprised by the judge's apparent decision.

Qazi Najeeb brought his hands onto his desk, his thumb still moving one amber bead at a time though he could not possibly be reciting anything holy as he spoke. The soft click of the stones against each other grated on Yusuf's nerves. What kind of judgment was this? Had Qazi Najeeb not heard the stories about Kamal the drinker, the blasphemer? Had he chosen to ignore that Zeba's husband had been the worst kind of man?

Zeba's hands began to shake. She turned her head to the side as if moving away from an oncoming blow.

“I find you guilty of murder,” Qazi Najeeb explained grimly. “Because that is what the evidence indicates. I have not seen anything in the defense's case to give another explanation for your husband's brutal death.”

“Well done,” whispered the prosecutor, who could now log another victory. The particulars of Zeba's case may have affected him as a person, but he also had to worry about his professional record. It was how he would be judged.

Yusuf's elbows rested on his knees. He knew the penal code. He'd
studied it and then reviewed it again when he first picked up Zeba's case. She could be hanged. If he looked at her now—if he dared move his gaze from the tassel of the carpet on the ground—he would see her suspended in the air, neck snapped like a plastic doll and body limp with defeat.

“Let me be even clearer. You, Khanum Zeba, have been found guilty of murdering your husband. It is a deplorable crime against Islam and a crime against the laws of our country. There can be no excuse for it. We will meet again in three days and I'll announce your sentence.”

AFTER HEARING THE GUILTY VERDICT, YUSUF HAD SLOGGED
home. He had planned to go directly to his apartment but decided, halfway down the road to his house, that he would stop at the gym first. He needed to do something physical.

He'd joined during his first week in the city. Inside were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bright recessed lights, and the familiar hum of treadmills. Weight machines were scattered throughout the room as were dumbbells. There were men of all different sizes, some in Adidas tracksuits and others in faded T-shirts with sleeves cut off at the shoulder. One man in a short-sleeved T-shirt pulled outward the two ends of an elastic resistance band. A thick vein ran down the center of each bicep like the crease on a pair of pants. The place smelled of rubber, sweat, and metal.

The treadmill kept Yusuf sane. There was something soothing about the rhythm of his sneakers hitting the belt as it spun around the conveyor. It gave him a place to think when his apartment was too quiet and the office was too empty.

Inevitably, his thoughts returned to Zeba and the mullah. He had to know if Habibullah truly was her father, though he was still unsure whether or not it would make a difference. Shortly after Zeba had returned to Chil Mahtab, he'd called her to ask about it.

What kind of question is that?
she had replied. It was neither confirmation nor denial.

Yusuf, with beads of sweat trickling down his back, decided to find out from Mullah Habibullah himself. If it were true, there might be more to chat about.

THUS, IN THE MORNING, YUSUF TRAVELED BACK TO THE SHRINE
and knocked on the mullah's door. The mullah's son answered, looking back into the living room with raised eyebrows.

“Padar! It's the lawyer!”

Yusuf peered into the sitting area and saw the mullah sitting on a floor cushion, the same exact spot he'd been sitting in during their last conversation. He had his back against the wall and his legs crossed. He wore a white crocheted prayer cap on his head and a black vest over his brown tunic and pantaloons. He glanced at his watch as if he'd been expecting Yusuf at this particular moment.

“
Salaam,
Mullah-
sahib,
” Yusuf said with a hand on his chest.

“
Wa-alaikum.
Welcome, young man.”

“Could we speak for a few minutes? I have an important matter to discuss with you. It has to do with Khanum Zeba, of course.”

The mullah motioned him to come in. Yusuf took two steps into the room. As he moved past the wooden door, he saw that the mullah was not alone. Across from him sat Gulnaz, her back straight as a hairpin. Her legs were tucked under her and hidden beneath a navy blue shawl with red embroidery. She looked from Yusuf back to the shawl spread across her lap, a deep sigh escaping her lips.

“
Salaam wa-alaikum,
” Yusuf said to Gulnaz, bowing his head. She nodded. “I did not expect to see you here.”

The mullah's son returned from the back room with another empty teacup.

“Have a seat,” the mullah said. Yusuf sat on the same floor cushion as the mullah, leaving a generous gap between them. The mullah's son placed the teacup on the carpet before him. He brought over the teapot and filled it sloppily, his carelessness disappearing into the
worn carpet. The boy then disappeared too, slipping into the next room and out an unseen back door.

Gulnaz had her eyes fixed on the mullah.

“I've interrupted your conversation,” Yusuf declared, feeling quite certain that he was sitting with both of Zeba's parents. Though Yusuf had never been married, he'd felt the same tension when he'd visited an aunt and uncle who had stayed married only to avoid the embarrassment of divorce. He'd felt it on the phone in his last conversation with Elena. It was a special brand of anger, a brooding, an ire that existed only where there had once been love. Yusuf cleared his throat. “I came here to ask a question about something Zeba said the other day but . . . well, I think my question's been answered.”

Neither the mullah nor Gulnaz said a word.

“I don't need to get into your family affairs or history. My concern is regarding the judge's verdict. I am sorry to report that the judge has found your daughter guilty. But I'm not ready to give up on her.”

Gulnaz's hands flew to her forehead.

“Guilty.” She sighed, her voice as thin and delicate as the red threads of her shawl. “Of course.”

“As I said, I'm not going to give up on her case.”

A small shift of the clouds brought a wash of sunlight into the room. Dust motes floated in the shaft of brightness that fell on Yusuf's feet.

“You,” the mullah said, his voice spiny with resentment. “How is that you couldn't find anything to grind up or set on fire to save your daughter? I suppose you only have tricks for an evil sister-in-law or the woman who looks at you sideways.”

Gulnaz's splayed fingers pressed into her lap. She lifted her head and turned her narrowed eyes to her husband.

“What a thing for you to say! You, the great holy man of the shrine, you pious wretch! You with all your prayers tied to the fences and unsaved mad men—how much have you done for your daughter?”

“What a fork-tongued witch you are,” he muttered.

“I'm the woman who raised your children and put up with your family after you left! If that makes me a fork-tongued witch, so be it. But imagine what a dog you must be—the man who didn't care to watch his children grow. You left us with nothing when rockets and bombs fell around us like rain.”

“I left you in the folds of a respected family.”

“You took me from the folds of a
revered
family.”

“Revered,” the mullah scoffed. “You told me yourself the tricks you helped your father play to make believers out of your poor neighbors.”

“You ungrateful bastard. If you think so little of my father, why are you so desperate to be like him? He was respected because he helped people. Unlike you, he did it in a civilized manner. He never shackled anyone or starved them.”

“What I do works. Talk to the families of the people I've helped heal. They'll tell you. Or don't. I don't need to prove myself to you.”

“No, you don't. You already have proven to me just what you are,” Gulnaz spat. She turned her head to the door, refusing to look at the man who'd walked out of their home a lifetime ago.

Yusuf considered leaving. They would likely not notice his departure. He couldn't waste valuable time listening to them rehash the past. Zeba was going to be sentenced in two days, and Qazi Najeeb's desire to follow the letter of the penal code meant he would hang Yusuf's client without blinking an eye.

“It's not my place to intrude,” Yusuf began cautiously. He was acutely aware of the difference in years between himself and Zeba's parents. They were old enough to be his grandparents, old enough to be treated with deference even if they were acting like fools. But social etiquette had been cast aside when Gulnaz and the mullah had aired their history before Yusuf. “But rehashing history will not help your daughter. Her outlook is bleak. I have a few ideas, but I'll need your help—both of you.”

The mullah slurped his tea and Gulnaz scowled, giving Yusuf a snapshot of their past.

“I would do anything to help Zeba. I told her that before she left here,” Habibullah declared, swirling the unfurled tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

“Good. Then I'll ask you to speak to the judge. He's a friend of yours, isn't he?”

The mullah nodded.

“Does he not know who you are?” Gulnaz asked. “His family is from the same village.”

“We were boys then,” Habibullah said quietly. “He's not once recognized me, and I don't expect him to. I'm a different man now in many ways, including in my appearance.”

“That much is true,” Gulnaz muttered. “You've aged badly.”

“Then speak to him,” Yusuf said quickly. “He respects you and your efforts here. He considers you an expert and a pious man. Tell him Zeba is your daughter and beg him for leniency.”

“Tell him who I am?”

“Yes. He's got to feel an obligation to do something for you. You can't just be speaking up for a person who's passed through your shrine. You've got to give him a real reason to listen to you.”

“That's exactly what I was telling him,” Gulnaz said quietly. “The
qazi
may have mercy on her if he learns that she's your daughter. It's Zeba's only hope.”

The mullah scratched at his beard, his thick eyebrows drawn together and his bottom lip puffed out. He was pouting, Yusuf realized.

“What's wrong with you?” Gulnaz snapped. She was irked that there was silence where there should have been agreement. She turned her head just fractionally to address her husband. “Is that too much to ask of you?”

“Listen.” The mullah's voice was a low roar. “I'll do anything I can for her. I told her I would. But that doesn't mean I have to jump headfirst into a well. I want to know if there's a better way.”

“A better way that doesn't involve you, isn't that what you mean?”

“And for you, Khanum,” Yusuf said, tracing the rim of his teacup with his index finger. Gulnaz lifted her head but did not look at him.
“I need you to do what you do best. Pay the
qazi
a visit and ask for mercy. She's the mother of four children. She was a good daughter. Her husband was a terrible man. Tell him all of that and, most important, remind him of your talents.”

“My talents?” Gulnaz repeated softly.

“Yes, you know what I mean. It's not something I would normally ask, but these are unique circumstances.”

“I understand,” Gulnaz nodded. “I'll speak with him.”

Yusuf did not doubt that she would.

“And what about you? What else are you going to do?” the mullah asked.

Yusuf looked at the door and remembered the sight of chained men in the yard by the cells. He thought of the many hours he'd spent under the green lamps of the law library and the way Zeba had steeled herself when he suggested approaching the judge with what she'd seen Kamal doing to that girl.

He was not proud of his tactics, but he'd been troubled ever since he'd learned why Zeba had done what she'd done. He thought of Sultana and the way she'd walked out on him, indignant and beautiful.

Yusuf put the teacup back on the floor and clapped both hands against his thighs before pushing himself to stand.

“As for me, I've got one other idea, but if it's going to do anything for Zeba, I need to get working on it. You both have my mobile number. The sentencing is on Thursday. Call me tomorrow and let me know what's happened.”

They remained in their places long after he'd left, the irresistible need to retrace their steps preventing them from leaving. Age demanded that they not leave anything unsaid.

Once upon a time, Gulnaz recalled sullenly, there had been an afternoon when she had peered into a window and felt giddy at the thought of her life tied to this man's by an invisible silver thread. Such an idea seemed astonishing now as they sat seething in each other's presence.