A House Without Windows (24 page)

The old woman's smile turned quickly into a scowl.

“She couldn't take anymore, that's what happened. Her husband would barely say hello to my sons when they passed him in the street. He would pretend as if he hadn't seen them, but I would watch him from here and he would stare as soon as their backs were turned. He did the same with anyone on the street, especially the young girls. No decency. No, that man was not a good man, and I know the difference
because I was married to a good man. Thirty-two years we spent together until God took him from me. Everyone in town knew him and he knew everyone. He would have hated Zeba's husband. He told me once if a wife doesn't love her husband, there's a good reason for it.”

“Your husband, God rest his soul, sounds like he was a wise man,” Yusuf offered.

“He was.”

“What do you think was going on between Zeba and her husband?”

“Hmph.” The woman folded her thin arms across her chest. “You know, God made turtles with a hard shell. They're born expecting to need that shell. Women are not born that way. A husband like Kamal can destroy them. He was a beast. Lately, I didn't see her as much, and when I did see her, she was scurrying back home, afraid she'd been gone too long. She was nervous a lot. And her husband . . .”

But before Yusuf could ask his next question, a voice boomed from inside the house.

“Madar, who are you talking to?”

Her son entered the courtyard and looked at Yusuf with suspicion. Yusuf stuck out his hand, hoping to defuse the situation before he lost this opportunity.

“
Salaam,
brother. My name is Yusuf and I was just speaking with your dear mother—”

In a moment, Yusuf was back on the street, listening to the son admonish his mother for letting in a foreign spy.

With heavy feet, Yusuf headed down the street. He couldn't bring himself to knock on any more doors—not for now. No, Yusuf was done for the day. He walked past the school Zeba's daughters attended and opted not to stop the man pushing a wagon of fresh fruits and plump, enticing raisins.

THE NEXT DAY, YUSUF STEPPED INTO THE VILLAGE MAIN STREET.
The acrid smell of diesel mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was the clink of soft drink bottles in a crate as a man in a gray tunic and pantaloons set up his kiosk.

The young lawyer breathed it in, dust and all. It was the smell of opportunity, rebirth, and hope. He'd dreamed of this moment for years, imagined walking through streets just like this one and struggling to practice law here the way thrill-seeking doctors travel to field hospitals in Africa to test their skills.

It was stripping the profession down to its core. It was all guts. It was all glory.

He'd imagined drafting arguments and constructing defenses and finding ways to make the well-intentioned Afghan penal code live up to its potential. He would plow through the weeds of injustice and corruption and let righteousness see the light of day.

His time in Afghanistan had been nothing like what he'd imagined. He tried not to dwell on it. These were the obstacles that would make it all worthwhile in the end. These were the challenges that made him want to come to Afghanistan in the first place. If it had been easy, someone else could have done it. The lawyers here could have managed.

It wasn't easy. That's why Zeba needed him. That's why this place called out to him.

Yusuf wanted to make a name for himself and he wanted to do that in Afghanistan. Was that vanity? No, he promised himself. Vanity was wanting a tailored pin-striped suit or a corner office in a skyscraper.

This was honor and legacy. This would give his mother something to boast about to her friends. This is what would save him from looking as disappointed as his father at the way life had turned out.

Still, Yusuf had to admit that this visit to the village was not as productive as he'd hoped. He'd confirmed that the police hadn't gathered any evidence, something he could use in his defense argument though he could already imagine the
qazi
shaking his head.

The police didn't have the time or resources to gather evidence, Aneesa had told him as he'd pored over the arrest registry for Zeba. As long as the officers had obtained a statement from the arrested person, there really was no need to waste time with evidence that probably didn't exist or couldn't be scientifically interpreted.

Zeba's prosecutor had probably heard by now that Yusuf had gone to the village to poke around. He was doubtless entertained by Yusuf's naïve efforts. The prosecution could write his case up on toilet paper and unfurl it in the
qazi
's office—it would still be stronger than Yusuf's defense.

Two men passed Yusuf walking in the opposite direction. One, who had a white beard and a triangular karakul hat, reminded Yusuf of his grandfather. The other had a stubbly chin and walked with his two hands knotted behind him. Their unhurried pace gave them ample opportunity to take in Yusuf's incongruous appearance.

“
Salaam-ulaikum,
” Yusuf said with a nod.

They returned his greeting and continued to look at him unabashedly.

Yusuf wanted to return to Zeba's neighborhood today. If he could just find a person who had actually been in their home that day when they'd all descended upon the murder scene, he might have a chance of learning something. There had to be information he could use.

Yusuf was lost in thought and barely noticed the rickety sound of
uneven wheels approaching. It was the woody scent of fresh almonds that caught his attention and caused him to stop short. A three-wheeled cart had rolled up close enough to tempt him with its stock.

“Agha, wait. Let me see what you have,” he called out.

The man stopped his cart but kept his hands wrapped around the two handles, his elbows bent and tucked close to his sides. He wore a round wool hat that did little to block the sun from his face. It was only late morning, but his forehead already glistened with a light sheen of sweat.

Yusuf took a few steps toward the cart, leaning over it to inspect the stock in each of the tall, thick plastic bags that made up the load. Dried chickpeas, long green raisins, almonds, and walnuts.

“
Salaam-ulaikum.
” Yusuf felt the man's eyes on him.

“
Wa-alaikum,
” the man replied. There was a pause before he spoke again. “These raisins are so sweet, you'll think they've been sugared. You've not had anything like them, I promise you.”

“Very well.” Yusuf nodded. “I'll take them and some of the almonds as well.”

The vendor flipped open a paper bag and scooped almonds into it. His tawny hands and face had been weathered by many days under the unforgiving sun. It was hard to judge his age. He looked to be in his midforties, but Yusuf had come to realize that everyone in Afghanistan looked ten to twenty years older than they actually were, and few could expect to live past sixty-five. It was as if life was in fast-forward, though it did not seem to give anyone a sense of urgency to do more in the abbreviated time he or she had. The vendor grabbed a second bag and was about to flip it open when he paused.

“Where are you from?” he asked curiously.

“I'm visiting from town,” Yusuf said, hoping to skirt the question. He could tell people where in Afghanistan he'd been born, but he knew that wasn't what they were asking.

“What have you come here for?” The man squinted as he looked at Yusuf, whose back was to the sun. He was also a good six inches taller than the fruit vendor.

“I've come to ask some questions,” Yusuf said, being unnecessarily careful with his words. “I'm sure you know that a man was found dead in his home not too long ago.”

“Mm.”

“I'm trying to find out what might have happened to him. People say his wife killed him, but no one saw it happen.”

The man scratched his beard.

“They call me Walid.”

“Good to meet you, Walid-
jan,
” Yusuf replied. Walid was not much older than himself, he realized with a closer look. “My name is Yusuf.”

Yusuf stuck out his hand. Walid met it with his, calloused and gritty.

“You're not a police officer,” Walid remarked. “Why are you asking questions?”

“No, I'm not a police officer. But I want to be sure we find the truth so that justice can be done.”

“The government sent you?”

“Not really. An organization. We work for justice.”

Another dodge.

“Has anyone told you what happened?”

Yusuf shook his head and frowned.

“Not yet. If you have something to share, I'd be very interested to hear it. Did you know the man who was killed or his wife?”

“I know everyone who eats almonds and raisins.”

“I'm sure you do. What did you think of him? God forgive his soul,” Yusuf added to play it fair.

“Yes, God forgive his soul,” Walid echoed, blankly. “He was a lucky man. He had a wife and children. His eldest son is a good boy—looks after the family even now that the mother is gone.”

“You've seen the children lately?”

Walid nodded.

“I saw them two weeks ago. They're with their father's family. They look well enough.”

Yusuf could pass this along to Zeba. It wasn't much, but he was certain she would be grateful for any news about her children.

“That's good. They've been through a lot, those poor children. They're missing two parents now.”

The raisin vendor nodded and gripped the handles of his cart. He leaned in as if about to push off then thought of something else and stopped.

“What kind of truth are you looking for?” he asked.

Yusuf was surprised by the question.

“Just the truth. I want to know if she was really responsible for killing him. I want to know if she deserves the punishment that she'll get if the judge believes she's guilty.”

“They'll kill her, won't they?”

“Maybe.”

“How can you say maybe? Why wouldn't they kill her?”

“There's always a possibility she didn't do it, I suppose. And even if she did do it, maybe there was a reason that we're not aware of.”

“A reason.”

“Yes, a reason.”

“What reason do you think?”

“I think I came all this way to ask questions because I don't have all the answers.”

A street mutt scampered past them. The sound of boys playing rose from the distance. The dog's ears perked and he ran off in the opposite direction with the fearful look of the abused. Yusuf was getting the distinct feeling that he was not in control of the conversation.

“Of course you have questions. Everyone does. No one can imagine why a decent woman would do such a thing,” Walid said, shifting his weight on his feet.

“Exactly.”

“What did her neighbors have to say about it?”

“I'm surprised you don't know what her neighbors are saying about it.”

“I don't hear everything,” he admitted as if it were a personal shortcoming.

“They didn't say much. Seems that no one wants to talk about it.”

“I'm sure you found someone to talk to. The old woman down the road from them always has something to say, even if it has nothing to do with anything.”

Yusuf felt a tickle on the back of his neck.

“You saw me yesterday.” It was a question disguised as a statement.

Walid was silent. He held Yusuf's gaze, which was all the confirmation he needed. Yusuf opened the paper bag, peered inside, and shook it slightly to rearrange the almonds. He plucked two out and held them in his palm.

“She said Zeba was a nice woman. She seemed to think it was a shame when family matters spilled into the street.”

“Spilled into the street?”

“Yes.”

“I think the street spilled into their home, to tell you the truth,” Walid quickly replied. There was the hint of indignation in his tone.

“What do you mean by that?”

Walid took a deep breath and straightened a bag of walnuts that was threatening to topple over.

“Akh, nothing. Just that . . . nothing really. But there were so many people in that home after the shouting. Everyone came running over to see what had happened.”

“Were you there that day?”

“In their home?”

“Yes. I hear lots of people rushed in. Were you one of them?”

Walid shook his head.

“I didn't go in. My job is in the street so I stay in the street. I know my place.”

“Weren't you curious to find out what had happened?”

Walid wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I'd heard enough.”

“Enough that you didn't need to see it with your own eyes,” Yusuf surmised.

Walid squinted. The two men were figuring each other out.

“You don't sound like you think she's a killer. Your questions are different. Are you her lawyer?”

Yusuf casually tossed the two almonds into his mouth. Toasted by the sun, they were indeed delectable.

“I am,” he admitted.

“I heard she confessed to killing him.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“What would you say?”

“That there are lots of things that don't make sense and there is something about her that makes me very concerned. She's not been well since she's been in the prison.”

“Not well?”

“My friend, sometimes people under a great deal of stress become fragile. Sometimes they start to come undone.”

“What does that matter? If she killed him, she killed him. Who cares if she's upset?”

Walid was becoming tense. His breathing was laborious, nostrils flaring a bit.

“Well, I don't think she's in her right state of mind, right now. And I'm also wondering if she wasn't in her right state of mind at the time that her husband was killed.”

“So you do think she killed him.”

Yusuf smiled and shook his head.

“No, I didn't say that. Even if she did, it's not right and it's not legal to convict someone of murder if she's crazy.”

Walid looked at him skeptically.

“The things you're saying. You're not making any sense.”

“It's the law,” Yusuf explained. “The law of this country states that she can't be guilty of a crime if she was insane at the time it happened.”

“That can't be true.”

“It's true. It's written into the judicial codes that govern this country. We have to respect that. But tell me, Agha Walid, tell me about the man who was killed. Did he prefer walnuts or almonds?”

Walid snickered, both at the notion that a single set of codes could govern this whole country and at the young lawyer's odd question. His snickers turned into a rattling cough. Yusuf waited for him to catch his breath and continue.

“He was a man with peculiar tastes—nothing I could offer him.”

“What do you mean by peculiar?”

Walid shrugged his shoulders.

“Since he didn't care much for what I had to sell, I don't know.”

Walid looked down the road. A mother carried a little girl in her arms. The child was probably old enough to walk but not quickly enough to keep up with her mother's pace. For now, she would be carried safely.

TALKING ABOUT WHAT HE'D SEEN WOULDN'T DO ANY GOOD,
Walid knew. The best thing for that poor little girl would be for no one to know what had happened, not even her parents. Walid had five children of his own, two of them girls. They were much younger than the girl he'd seen that day, but it still gave him chills.

If only he'd chosen a different route that day—he'd be a much happier man right now. As it was, he hadn't been sleeping very well lately. His wife, after hearing him recount that day's events, shook her head and looked at him with disappointment. She'd pulled their two- and four-year-old daughters closer to her, a gesture that had angered him. Was she pulling them away from him? He wasn't the dangerous one.