A House Without Windows (23 page)

The woman scowled at Latifa and pushed her hand away.

Zeba wanted to help them all, but there were so many pleas and not even Gulnaz's
jadu
worked all the time. Sometimes it was overpowered by another spell, Gulnaz had explained, and sometimes it was struck down by God. Zeba also knew that she was not Gulnaz. Zeba's eyes were a dull brown, her skin showed its age, her convictions were weakened by doubt. She was an apprentice when what these women really needed was the master.

Latifa closed the door to the cell.

“Thank you,” Zeba said gently.

Latifa shrugged her shoulders. She was quite content with the informal position she'd been given. Zeba knew that Latifa had also
been showered with gifts by women hoping to have Zeba's ear. Prison guards, police officers, and judges had their palms greased all the time. For Latifa, having her turn at it meant she was rising in the ranks.

“I need to get out of this room for a bit,” Zeba said, fanning herself with a rumpled magazine. The electric fan in their cell had stopped working a week ago. “I need some air.”

“Sure,” Latifa said. “I'm going to go down to the beauty parlor and see what the women are up to.”

She was probably trying to drum up more business for tomorrow, Zeba realized with a sinking feeling as soon as she stepped out of the cell. She didn't have the energy to fight it.

She wanted so much to help each and every one, to open the doors and set them free or promise them that their children would stay with them forever. But Zeba was neither a lawyer nor a judge. She could do nothing with the bribes she'd been given, nor could she even know if her own children would ever see her again. This prison, with its beauty salon and televisions and crayon-scribbled walls, was a dungeon. The injustice inside it leached all the energy from her body. Zeba ran her hand along the red oily scrawl left by a child just learning the alphabet. The children here made her most sad.

“Madar-
jan
!”

Zeba spun around. Shabnam? Kareema?

“Madar!”

The echo of a child's voice through the cold hallway made Zeba weak, even when it belonged to another woman's child. She turned each and every time, though it had been so long since anyone had called to her.

A six-year-old girl with plastic sandals and a brightly colored dress came racing down the hallway. The hems of her hand-me-down pantaloons looked like they would catch between her feet.

“Slowly, slowly!” Zeba cautioned.

The little girl slowed her step and looked at Zeba curiously. The roundness of her eyes, the drift of her bangs, the dimple in her chin called to mind Kareema. Zeba's eyes watered.

“You sweet thing. Why are you calling your mother? Do you miss her?”

“No, I . . . uh . . . I just needed her.”

Zeba's head spun slightly. She'd not had a chance to eat lunch with all the women coming to see her. Latifa had brought her water, but she'd left it untouched.

“Your dress is so pretty.”

Kareema had been wearing a dress just like this little girl's dress on the day Kamal had died. It had been Shabnam's until just a few months ago. The girls would have grown since she'd been away. Rima must have learned a few more words by now. Maybe she was running.

There were thoughts that Zeba couldn't push out of her head. Did Tamina really look after them? If Rima cried at night, did anyone soothe her? Were the girls being used as house servants or would they be married off as revenge for their father's murder? They were only children. She prayed, with the fervor of the most devout believer, that Kamal's family was not blaming them for Kamal's death.

She remembered the faces of the twin boys, the way they'd flinched on hearing the crime committed against their mother. Tiny shoulders bore a lot of blame.

Zeba was on her knees. She was holding the startled girl's hands in her own, turning them over and staring at the pink of her palms.

Children had such perfect hands—so soft and eager to hold on to someone who would love them. Was Rima holding her aunt's hands? Did she try to nestle against her aunt's bosom? And when she did, was she pulled in so she would forget Zeba or was she pushed away and left to wonder why?

A little boy came along. By the way he took the little girl's hand from Zeba and moved close enough that their shoulders were touching, she guessed he must have been her brother though he couldn't have been more than a year older.

“What a good brother you are! So good of you to take care of your
sister. God will reward you for being such a caring brother. What is your name?”

The two children exchanged looks.

“My name is Bashir,” he answered slowly.

Zeba threw her head back and laughed. She wiped her tears away and leaned in to share her story.

“My son's name is Basir! Did you know that? He's older than you. He's such a good boy, too. When he was your age, he used to take care of his little sisters. Your mother must love you both very much. You should never leave her, understand me? No matter what people say about her, you should never believe it. Even if they call her a whore or a liar or a murderer or a . . .”

The two children were looking past Zeba at the warden and Yusuf. They stood behind her, listening to her wild rant.

Zeba didn't hear them calling her name.

“People don't know. They say terrible things, but they don't really know what's happened.”

The children took one step backward, then two.

“Are you afraid of me? Please, please don't be afraid of me! I'm nothing to be scared of! I'm so sorry. I only wanted to talk to you!”

There were hands on her elbows, bringing her to her feet.

“Why are you running from me!” she shrieked. “I'm not the person you should be running from! I promise I am not that person!”

There were shouts, calls for guards to help, more hands on her even as she kicked. Her head scarf fell to the floor.

“Let me go! Let me go! I didn't kill him!”

Latifa loomed over her.

“Shut up, Zeba! You're scaring these children! Look what you've done!”

But Zeba hadn't done anything. Why couldn't anyone see that? Why did everyone continue to blame her?

“Zeba,” Yusuf said. Asma and another guard were holding Zeba
up by the elbows. Her knees were bent, and she was writhing in their grasp. “Control yourself!”

Latifa grabbed Zeba's face with her hands—thick, manly hands that made Zeba's feet kick out, striking Latifa in the shin. Latifa let go and scowled sharply.

Zeba's head ached. She felt the urge to slam her skull against the wall and release the poison.
Human skulls are nothing more than eggshells anyway,
she thought.
And even a child can crack eggs.

“Get your hands off me! You brought that filth into our home. I could smell it and taste it and feel it and you told me it was nothing! I should have killed you long ago!”

“Khanum Zeba, please, stop screaming . . .”

“Take her to the interview room and watch over her until she calms down. She's not going to get away with acting like this in my prison,” the director said, her arms folded across her chest. Her words cut through the shouts and made Zeba go still. Her legs straightened, and she was standing on her own.

“This is not prison. Prison is out there,” said Zeba in a throaty, singsong voice. “I'm no one's slave. I'm no one's prisoner. God as my witness, I'm unshackled!”

“Not for long, I'm sure. My God, Zeba. You're as crazy as we always thought you were,” Latifa shouted from far enough away that Zeba's foot couldn't reach her.

Yusuf watched carefully as his client was led down the hallway, her back now straight with a dignity that only an insane person could feel. Maybe Latifa was right, he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, Zeba was as crazy as she seemed to be.

YUSUF STOOD WITH CHIEF HAKIMI AT THE DOOR TO ZEBA'S
home
.
Hakimi pushed the door in.

“This is the scene of the crime,” he announced dramatically. “I gathered what evidence I could. It was obvious she had killed her husband.”

They stepped into the courtyard. The absence of life hit Yusuf harder than the shadow of death. This had been a home, and the ghosts of its inhabitants seemed to be present. Yusuf could almost hear the echoes of an everyday existence in the courtyard: the scrape of a spatula against an aluminum pot, the pungent smell of seared garlic and onions, the soft giggles of sisters sharing secrets, the hum of a mother with her children at her feet.

They were gone.

“Where was Khanum Zeba when you got here?”

“Right there,” Hakimi said, pointing to the front wall of the house. “She was sitting on the ground, and all the neighbors had gathered around her. Her children—they were shaken up. She was a bad sight. The blood on her hands was already dry. The baby was crying. I don't know how long she'd been sitting like that. She wasn't saying much.”

Thank goodness for that,
Yusuf thought.

“People were very upset. They didn't know what to think. Noth
ing like this should have happened in our town. The women couldn't believe she would have done such a thing, but it happens.”

“What happens?” Yusuf said without turning to the police chief. He sensed that looking this man in the eye made him uncomfortable, and he wanted to hear Hakimi's unfiltered thoughts.

“Women lose their minds. Maybe he did something to make her that way. I don't know. I didn't know either of them very well, but I know the rest of his family. This has been very hard on them.”

“So you think Khanum Zeba flew into a rage and killed her husband?”

“Yes, that's . . . well, then why else would I arrest her?” Hakimi replied defensively.

“Of course. Anyone in your shoes would have done the same,” Yusuf reassured. He kept his tone casual and friendly. “As you described it, there was no obvious reason to think Khanum Zeba
hadn't
been the one to kill her husband. But let me ask you this. While you were here with the neighbors and friends, did anyone come forward to say they'd heard any shouting or that they'd seen anything unusual that day? Maybe someone else entering or leaving the home? I'm not saying you did the wrong thing, but I'm just curious if there were any other sides to the story that need to be investigated.”

But Hakimi's shoulders stiffened.

“I don't need you to tell me I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing. I'm the police chief here. What you need to be asking is what your darling Khanum Zeba did—not what I did! Where are you from, anyway?”

It was Yusuf's turn to tense.

“I am not questioning you. This is a misunderstanding. I'm only trying to make sure I know the full story so that I can do my job and provide Khanum Zeba with a reasonable defense.”

“Do what you need to do then. I will wait here for you to finish,” Hakimi huffed and turned to take a seat in an upturned plastic chair in the courtyard. “Don't touch anything. I'll be watching.”

“Of course. I'll just be a few moments.”

Yusuf took a deep breath. How had this conversation gone so wrong? He'd meant to befriend Hakimi, to make him an ally. He strolled through the house. There was nothing unusual about it. There was the usual sparse kitchen area with a few items spread out, as if someone would walk in any moment and pick up where they'd left off. The rooms were small and simple with floor cushions and a single wooden-armed sofa. A thermos sat on the living room floor next to a glass teacup stained with a series of brown rings. There was a brown-and-yellow tapestry nailed to the wall, a geometric print that echoed the pattern of the carpet. He walked through the back door and into the yard behind the house. He recognized the layout from what Rafi had described to him and from the police report. The outhouse was right where he expected it to be, as was the pear tree. The solitary rosebush sat off to the side, almost as if it were retreating from the home.

Was that where Kamal's body had been? Yusuf could almost believe that the ground still carried the stain of blood though it was now several weeks and quite a few rains since Kamal's murder.

“That's all there is to see.”

Hakimi's voice startled Yusuf, who had crouched on the ground over where Kamal's body had been.

“Yes, there is nothing surprising. I just wanted to see with my own eyes.”

“Let's go then. I don't need the neighbors thinking the chief of police is giving Zeba's lawyer extra help.”

“Of course. But I believe she's innocent and in order for me to defend her, it's important for me to gather information. You're a fair person—I can tell.”

“I am,” Hakimi agreed, his hands on his hips. “And that's why I have this title. It's a big responsibility, but I take it seriously. Most people in my position don't and that's the problem.”

“I'm sure of that,” Yusuf said, nodding. “One question, Hakimi-
sahib
. What position was the husband's body in when you found him?”

“He wasn't moving. He was just dead.”

Hakimi's tone made his unimpressed opinion of Yusuf quite clear.

“I know he was dead when you found him, but what position was his body in? He was here, correct?”

Hakimi pulled at his chin and squinted.

“He was . . . he was on his belly. His head was turned to the side and facing us.”

“Where was the hatchet?”

“Over there,” Hakimi motioned to the back wall of the house, not far from the door Yusuf had just come through.

“And was there any other evidence? Anything else found here or in the house that seemed out of place?”

“It looked just like this. What you see here now is the same thing I saw that day, except for the dead husband, the wife, and the hatchet. You can't make a simple thing into a complicated one just by asking a lot of questions.”

“That's not what I'm trying to do. I don't have the benefit of having seen it with my own eyes so I'm asking you. Was there blood inside the house?”

“No,” Hakimi said, though the truth was that he hadn't checked. What difference would it have made? If Zeba had tracked blood through the house, would that have made her any more or less guilty?

Yusuf sighed.

Forensic science had a long way to go in Afghanistan. Yusuf knew he wouldn't have the luxury of DNA tests. Fingerprints might have been a possibility, but no one had bothered taking any.

“What's been going on with the children? I know they're living with their uncle. Have you heard anything from them?”

“What's to hear? Poor kids lost their father and their mother, really. At least they had somewhere to go. Not every family would have taken in the children of a killer.”

“But they're of the same blood.”

“Yes, but the circumstances are different.”

“I'd like to be able to talk to Khanum Zeba's children. They're the only ones who know what things were like between their mother and father. How can I get to them?”

Hakimi laughed lightly and shook his head, ushering Yusuf toward the door.

“You're being ridiculous. They're only children. They don't know anything about their parents, and they weren't there when their father was killed—thank God they were spared that much. There's no way that Fareed is going to let you near his nephew and nieces. You'd better find someone else to talk to.”

ONCE HAKIMI HAD LEFT HIM, YUSUF DECIDED TO CONTINUE HIS
investigation. He knocked on the door of the house to the left of Zeba's. There was the patter of small feet before the door swung open. A young boy, no more than six years old, peered at Yusuf.

“
Salaam!
” he said brightly.

“
Wa-alaikum salaam,
” Yusuf replied, burying a smile. The sight of young boys had had a surprising effect on him since his return, as if he were stepping back in time and seeing himself as a child.

“Who are you?” the boy asked. It was unusual to have strangers at the door.

“My name is Yusuf. Is your father home?”

“No, he's working,” he answered. Just then his mother appeared behind him, sliding her head scarf over her forehead.

“Sorry, who are you? What do you need?” she said abruptly, pulling her son aside and closing the door just slightly.

Yusuf took two steps back.

“Forgive me, Khanum. I am looking into the terrible tragedy that happened next door to you. I was wondering if you or your husband wouldn't mind helping me. I just have a few questions and won't take much of your time.”

The woman's eyes narrowed.

“No, I have nothing to say about it. This is something for the police to take care of,” she replied as she gently closed the door on Yusuf.

The next four homes gave him the same response. The fifth refused to open the door. Yusuf was beginning to wonder if he'd wasted his time in coming out to the village. He'd learned nothing from visiting the house. Why was everyone so reluctant to talk about Zeba's family? Where was the gossip mill when he needed it?

Two blocks away from Zeba's home, Yusuf's luck changed.

She was a sprightly, gray-haired woman who shouldn't have come to the door herself but she'd been in the courtyard picking peppermint leaves and was probably happy to have someone to talk to. Yusuf crooked his neck to speak to her.

“Yes, I knew that family. For God's sake, we all know that family! We almost live close enough to know when they've burned their dinner.”

Yusuf smiled brightly.

“What was Khanum Zeba like? Did you speak to her often?”

“Who are you? You're not a police officer. Why are you asking so many peculiar questions?”

“No, and forgive me for not introducing myself properly. My name is Yusuf. I'm a lawyer working on the case.”

Yusuf found it better not to say, straight off, whose interest he represented.

“Oh, a lawyer. You're not from the city, then,” she deduced, taking a closer look at him. “Good for you. Are you married? Where is your family from?”

Yusuf felt his potential being assessed. He half expected a dark-haired young woman to emerge from the house and bat her eyes at him. Had he imagined it or had the window curtains just fluttered?

“You're a kind woman. You remind me so much of my aunt,” Yusuf interjected in an effort to redirect the conversation. “She was always friendly with the neighbors as well. Everyone loves her.”

“Is she dead?”

“No, no . . . God forbid. She's very well.” Yusuf was thrown by her comment.

“Oh, that's good.”

“Why?”

“The way you talk about her. People only say nice things about the dead, so you never know what the truth is. You can be a brute in life, but the moment you die, all is forgiven. It used to make me mad, but now that I'm old and know what people say about me, I'm glad for it.”

“I'm sure people have only kind things to say about you,” Yusuf offered politely. “But what did you think about Khanum Zeba—since she's still alive—was she a good person?”

“I saw her from time to time. Enough to know she was a good woman—always polite. She knew God.”

“And what about her husband?”

“Eh, he was a man. Nothing special about him.”

“Do you know if they fought? If he beat her?”

The woman let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“Young man, I came out here to pick mint leaves,” she said, waving a fistful of greens in Yusuf's face. “Do you see this? Half of this is weeds because my eyes can't see the difference. Even if I'd seen those two with their arms around each other, I couldn't tell if they'd been wild with passion or about to kill each other.”

“I suppose every family has its secrets.”

“Of course. And that man was up to no good. Even with these tired old eyes, I could see that.”

“What makes you say that?” Yusuf asked, intrigued.

“First of all, they moved to this neighborhood to get away from his family. They never said that was the reason, but I know it because I used to know his mother. My daughter-in-law's sister is friends with his sister. No one in his family could stand him.”

“Do you know why?”

She shook her head and waved a hand in the air dismissively.

“Siblings are supposed to love each other but some people are so busy being jerks that they forget who their siblings are. They start being a jerk to everyone around them. I've raised my children differently, thank God. My own sons and daughters get along very well. When they were young, I used to tell them . . .”

“I'm sure your children are quite different,” Yusuf gently interrupted. “How was Zeba when they moved into the neighborhood? Did you ever speak with her then?”

“That was years ago. She was friendly, actually. She was always very polite to me. She told me once that I reminded her of her mother.”

“Really?” Yusuf did not see a bit of resemblance between this woman and Gulnaz.

“Yes, and the way she said it, I almost thought her mother might be dead. But I met her once when she came to visit her daughter and grandchildren. Her mother's much younger than me. And I think her vision is just fine. Both of us have lost our husbands, though. Maybe that reminded her of me. I can't imagine what else.”

“I've had the pleasure of meeting her and she's an admirable woman, just like yourself.”

“I see. You're one of those young men who knows all the right things to say,” she said with a smirk. “I like that.”

Yusuf laughed lightly.

“I hope I can ask the right questions as well,” he said, trying to stay on track. “When did you notice a change in Khanum Zeba? Did something happen?”