A House Without Windows (9 page)

By morning, Zeba would be a bit more Zeba—relying on no one to fix the small messes an average day brought. It was one of life's many tragedies that Kamal wasn't around to see it.

ZEBA HAD JUST MET WITH THE WARDEN OF THE PRISON TO GIVE
her account of the crime she'd been charged with. The warden, a stout middle-aged woman who spent most of her time behind her desk, was unimpressed and unsurprised by Zeba's poor memory of recent events. She had frowned as she closed the manila folder with Zeba's name on it and nodded for Asma, the red-haired guard, to lead her back to her cell.

Zeba stared at her feet as they shuffled over perfectly square bone-colored tiles. The walls were painted the same color but mostly hidden by the scribbling of children and a few bored women. The cell doors and gates were painted an incongruously cheerful blue.

Two preschool-age boys ran past them, an elbow brushing past Zeba's thigh. Their laughter made Zeba uneasy.

“Slow down!” Asma yelled after them. She shook her head and flicked her veil to the side. “They're just as bad as their mother.”

Asma led Zeba past the guard's station, a half-moon glass enclosure in the middle of the prison with views down long corridors in either direction. Inside was a wooden table with a radio, its antenna lying limply on its side, and a small stack of refolded newspapers. Another guard sat inside and looked up as they passed by. Zeba turned her gaze back to her feet.

They turned the corner, and a stairwell led to the second floor. A
girl, probably a year older than Rima, sat on the landing between the two floors, a pinwheel in her hands. Her violet dress flared against the concrete. She looked up and smiled beatifically at Zeba. Zeba wanted to smile back at her, but it didn't quite make sense to do so.

Loud voices came from the small room next to the stairwell. Zeba glanced in as they walked by and saw a folding chair placed in front of a vanity. Gaping drawers revealed round and flat hairbrushes, tins full of bobby pins, and tubes of lipstick. A can of hair spray sat atop the counter. One freshly coiffed prisoner sat in the chair, twisting her neck and torso to get a look at the back of her head. Two other women, rust-colored fingertips stained with henna, stood around her, one of them applying rouge to her cheekbones as she stared into a mirror the size of her palm. They didn't bother to look up as Zeba passed by.

“Like they're going to a wedding,” Asma muttered, her eyes unlined and her cheeks unrouged. “Boredom is a crime waiting to happen.”

Asma took her to the end of the hallway, at the blue door Zeba had come to recognize by the dent where an angry foot had left its mark.

“Zeba, you're back!”

“I thought maybe they'd set you free. You were gone a long time.”

Zeba felt herself grow suddenly tired at the sound of her roommates' voices. One thing about this cramped prison with its wide hallways and small rooms—it was nearly impossible to be alone.

“Be nice,” Asma chided with one eyebrow raised. “No need to start trouble, right, Latifa?” She scanned the room quickly before her eyes lit on Latifa for effect.

Latifa puffed her cheeks and exhaled in frustration.

“The only difference between us is that uniform, Asma. You know it, too.”

“Yeah, that's exactly right, Latifa. That's all there is,” Asma agreed sarcastically. She gave Latifa a long, hard look before turning her back and leaving. Zeba figured she could safely assume it had been Latifa's leaden foot against the door that left the dent.

Zeba slipped into the room. She ducked her head to sit on her low bunk.

She was reluctant to engage in conversation with the women, but as Asma had just said, boredom was a crime waiting to happen. Zeba was growing impatient and anxious. She was trying not to imagine spending the rest of her life in this prison but was also having a hard time imagining any alternative. The judge had not yet given her a date for her trial. Her brother was looking for a lawyer. It wouldn't be easy to find one who would want to defend her, she knew.

“You haven't met with the judge yet?” Latifa asked once the sound of Asma's footsteps faded.

“No,” Zeba said simply. “Not yet.”

“They like to keep people a good, long time before they even start the trial. Keep you in here so long that you and everyone you know start to believe you're guilty for whatever's written in your file.”

Latifa sat on a plastic chair facing the television set in the corner of the cell. Mezhgan and Nafisa sat on the floor in front of the bunk bed they shared. They were devout followers of a Turkish soap opera, voices awkwardly dubbed in Dari. Their eyes did not drift from the grainy screen.

“How long were you here before you got your trial?” Zeba asked.

Latifa let out a guffaw before answering.

“I was here two months. Simple case but the prosecutor kept filing extensions. I wasn't even denying that I'd left my family's home or taken my sister. But I know why. I'm sure the judge was hoping my father would sweeten his tea and arranged for the delays.”

Two months. Zeba felt a lump in her throat swell. She lowered her head.

“Doesn't mean it will be the same for you, just means that's what he did for me. Isn't that right, Khanum?” Latifa nodded her head in the direction of another guard, a plain woman in her forties with wisps of hair peeking out from under a chestnut head scarf. She'd paused at their doorway, her eyes drawn to the soap opera drama.

“Come on, Latifa. You know I don't listen to anything you say,” she said smartly.

Latifa chuckled.

“You're some friend, thanks. How's your daughter, by the way? Is she back to school yet or still having fevers?”

“She's much better, thanks. She went back yesterday, which means I could be here to watch over you instead of her. How lucky am I?”

The mood was light, until the guard asked her next question.

“Nafisa, are you ready for tomorrow?”

Nafisa took a deep breath in and started to squirm on the floor. Mezhgan put a hand on her cellmate's knee.

“You'll be fine,” she reassured.

“It's stupid,” Latifa declared.

“If you've got nothing to hide, this can help you,” the guard said gently.

Latifa noticed the look of confusion on Zeba's face.

“This little girl is going to get examined tomorrow,” Latifa sang out, with the theatrics of a radio announcer. “A very wise and all-knowing doctor's going to tell the world if she's a virgin or not. That's what everyone really wants to know. Did she or didn't she? Is she still a girl or is she a harlot? Has she stripped her father of his honor?”

Nafisa's face turned a deep shade of red.

“Shut up, Latifa!” she hissed.

Latifa continued, unfazed.

“Let me prepare you a bit since no one else will. You'll have to take your underpants off and lift your skirt. The doctor's going to use a flashlight to look at every hole in your body to see if a man's been near it. Oh, yes, your backside is part of the exam. But the front is the main story. He'll poke around looking to make sure your woman part still has its modesty veil. If you don't have that little veil they're looking for, you're in big trouble. If you've ever fallen from a window or out of a tree, better mention it before they've got your legs open for a look. That's the only hope you've got to explain what they might find
in a way that doesn't condemn you to this place for another decade. Did you fall out of a tree? Think hard, my friend. Surely, you must have fallen from a tree at some point in your life.”

Mezhgan clucked her tongue sympathetically.

“Enough, Latifa! You think everything's a joke. She's going to be humiliated enough tomorrow as it is. You don't have to make it worse.”

“I'm only trying to prepare her. Look at the poor girl's face. Haven't you noticed that she's barely eaten or slept in the last couple of days? She's a bag of nerves. Not everyone would be as prepared as
you
to have a man sticking his fingers between her legs.”

Mezhgan grabbed her hairbrush and threw it at Latifa's head. She ducked just in time. Mezhgan stood and looked as if she might storm out of the cell. She made it to the doorway, where she paused, arms folded across her chest. The guard smiled in amusement.

“I hope her lawyer is better than mine,” Latifa said, sighing. “The one assigned to me told me I should be ashamed for leaving my family. He told the judge as much at my hearing and then asked him to have pity on me because I seemed to be repentant—what a defense! There's a woman in here that got examined and the doctor reported that she had been having sex at least once a week with two different men.”

“They can tell that from looking at her there?” Nafisa, a lilt of surprise in her voice.

“I'm not a doctor. Maybe the men left their voting cards inside her. Damned if I know.”

Nafisa was too nervous to find this amusing.

“What did your test show?” Nafisa asked. In the weeks they'd spent together in the cell, Latifa had never spoken about her exam. She'd not even mentioned that she'd endured one.

“My test? Are you as stupid as they are?” Latifa huffed. “You don't have to ask the flesh between my legs if I've ever had sex with a man. You can just ask me and I'll tell you I haven't, even if the men in my family don't believe it. My brother swore he'd kill me for being a whore.”

Latifa then paused, her eyes closed. She wagged her finger in the air as if it were receiving a signal.

“I've got one! I've got one!

“If a man's honor is his highest prize

Why then stash it between a woman's thighs?

“Isn't it brilliant?” Latifa exclaimed. Zeba was too distracted to appreciate the couplet or the fact that she'd inspired a bit of creativity in her cellmate.

“Do they examine everyone?” Zeba asked nervously.

“No,” Latifa said as she stood up and shook out her legs. “Only if you're here for adultery or
zina
. And something tells me that's not what you're here for.”

Latifa was right. Zeba had hardly desired to have sex within her marriage, much less outside of her marriage.

“So, Zeba, are you going to tell us what happened or are we going to have to guess?”

Zeba met Latifa's stare. She shook her head and took a deep breath.

It was shocking how quickly the smell of blood had filled the air. Ghastly shadows appeared on her husband's face. Was it pain? He'd looked shocked, as if he were staring the devil in the face. He had crumpled, his arms outstretched, half expecting Zeba to catch him. The ground had quaked beneath Zeba and she'd let out a sharp gasp. Darkness, seeping from her husband's head, stained the earth around him and inched toward her. Zeba had stumbled to get back on her feet, never turning her back on him. She'd hobbled backward until her back hit the outhouse wall, then she'd slid to the ground. Zeba lifted her eyes for a second, just long enough to cry out a single word.

Go.

“I have nothing to say.” Zeba returned to her cot and buttoned the cuff of her sleeve. The others saw her fingers fumbling, her lips quivering. These moments came from time to time, sudden flashes from that day. It was difficult to have a conversation in those moments. It was sometimes even hard to breathe.

Latifa recognized it but pressed on.

“Nothing at all? Did I get it wrong? Or maybe he just wasn't very handsome. Or,” she continued with a doubtful tone, “maybe you are just as lovesick as these girls. Maybe you did find a new man, someone a little less wrinkled. Or with deeper pockets. Please tell me that's it. That would be a story I'd want to hear!”

Kamal's face again. His eyes wild and glaring.

Latifa searched her pockets and took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She poked a thick finger inside and felt around, disappointed. She tossed the empty pack on her bed.

Zeba's breaths were shallow. Her fingers tingled.

Go!

Had it come out as a scream or a whisper? It was hard to remember.

“Enough,” Nafisa shouted. “Latifa, you're a jackass.”

Zeba had melted away by then, her breathing even and her mind empty. This was the third time she'd fainted since she'd arrived. Mezhgan was unnerved by it. She brushed at her skirt nervously and swore she would never let herself be alone in a room with Zeba.

Nafisa put aside her anxieties about her upcoming exam. She would endure it in the name of love. She was a believer in romance, in star-crossed lovers and passion destined by God. How else could she survive the fact that her widower, despite his lusty promises, had not yet approached her family for her hand in marriage? She knew romance well enough to recognize the absence of it in Zeba's face. The prison of Chil Mahtab, Forty Moons, was home to women who'd committed crimes far darker than lust.

“For God's sake, Latifa, are you blind? This isn't love,” Nafisa whispered, her eyes on Zeba's trembling hands. “This is something unholy.”

ZEBA'S EYELIDS LIFTED SLOWLY, HER VISION FOCUSING ON A
metal grid. Her head felt heavy. She lifted a finger. Then a hand. She shifted and felt a bedsheet crumple beneath her sandaled foot. She was on her cot. She had no recollection of being moved, but her cellmates must have repositioned her on the bed with her shoes on. They no longer bothered calling the guards.

Zeba had never fainted before the last couple of weeks. Not as a child when she'd seen rockets fall from the sky. Not when she was pregnant in the hottest, driest months. Not even when she'd cried for her disappeared father. Something in Zeba had changed, and she knew what it was. The darkness was coming for her.

A lifetime had passed since she'd first seen it—so long that she'd nearly forgotten what it was to live without the terror. It came slowly, infrequently in the beginning. It slithered into her house like the smoke of a fire, curled through the gap between the window and the wall, touching Zeba and her children as they slept and making them jerk with fright in their dreams. It clung possessively to her husband, winding its way around his fingers, crawling up his arms and swarming his head with its bitter cloud. The children breathed it in, absorbing it into their innocent bodies, their veins darkening without them knowing. The family slept in one large room together, Zeba listening for the sound of the children breathing in the night, fearing the
darkness would wrap itself around their young necks and choke them before the sun rose. The girls woke with a start, more than once, to find their mother's fingertips brushing at their throats anxiously, then patting their shoulders with a hush to urge them back to sleep.

When Zeba did sleep, she dreamed of the darkness. She saw it weaving through their food and knew by dawn there would be evidence of its existence: maggots in the sack of rice, mold on freshly baked bread, and apples covered in bruises. She would wake in the morning and toss the most rotted food to the stray dogs. She would have thrown it all out if she weren't afraid they would have nothing to eat at all. Zeba felt a gray film on their plates and cups and heard the incessant buzzing of flies. She did her best to scrub it off, but she could still taste it. It permeated metal, stone, and skin. It was inescapable.

Zeba's angst grew. The darkness came more often, once a month. Then once a week.

She wished for her mother. Who better than Gulnaz to deal with something as intangible as this? Gulnaz approached darkness with her special kind of science. But Zeba couldn't exactly turn to her now, not after the things Zeba had said.

What do you want, Madar? You want my children to be raised fatherless the way we were? You want me to put them through a life of shame and hurt, too? I won't do it. I'm not you. I don't want people to look at me the way they look at you!

No, her mother had probably not forgiven Zeba for that yet. She would have to find a way to deal with this herself.

She worked up the nerve to tell Kamal about it.

There is something here
,
Kamal
.
It is hurting us.

It was blackening their lives, it was a shadow over their home. The first time she brought it up, she was surprised that Kamal bothered to listen to her. When she finished talking, her hands wringing behind her back, he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“You're imagining things. Don't be like your witch of a mother.”

His words stung, but she breathed a little easier. He was confident and concrete, and she could believe in him.

The second time she'd brought up her fears, he had said nothing but twisted her ear so hard that it swelled to a purple mass. She hid it with her hair and head scarf so the children wouldn't ask her what had happened.

“I don't want to be married to one of those stupid women who believe in the unbelievable.”

But if she believed in it, how could it be unbelievable?

Zeba bit her lip and went back to her needlework, unconvinced. He did not see what she could see. He didn't understand that they lived in a house with no windows.

She watched the children carefully. She kept them close to her. They went from school to home, where she made sure they played at her feet while she tended to the cooking. She scrubbed at their skin like they were day-old dishes and repeatedly felt their foreheads for fever. The darkness could look like anything, she intuited. Kamal was of no help. It was up to her to protect her family.

Zeba lay awake in the nights, ready to meet the invisible trespasser and thinking of ways to fend it off. Though she could not always see it, she could smell it, like a piece of rotting meat so foul that it turned her stomach. Even the mice stayed away.

When Zeba cooked, she breathed in the fresh cilantro, garlic, cumin, and lemon. She tried to cleanse her senses of the stench that had settled into their walls.

By night, it was back.

The children didn't see what Zeba could see. They acted no differently in the day, as long as their father wasn't around. Basir's laughter echoed through the street behind their home. He came home scraped up from soccer games but not broken. The girls helped each other with the chores around the house. Kareema and Shabnam brought sloshing pails of water from the well, each grabbing on to the warped metal handle. They sang folk songs just like other girls their age. Rima stumbled, crawled, and babbled like any other baby. None of them knew any better. Zeba was baffled by their immunity. Sometimes she
was grateful for it. Other times she was angry that she was the only person in her family to feel the weight of the darkness.

ZEBA, TWO DAYS BEFORE THE EID HOLIDAY, STRUNG THE LIVING
room carpet up in the courtyard to beat the dust from it. She held the end of her head scarf over her mouth and nose with one hand and thumped at the rug with a thick stick. Her husband had been gone since morning. She hoped he'd gone off to work though it was more than possible he was off drinking and smoking what little money he earned.

She started from one corner and moved across the rectangle systematically. The carpet wobbled pathetically under her blows.

Zeba moved her aim downward and dealt the carpet a few more sharp smacks. When her stick snapped in two, she let out a sharp cry, then picked up a broom handle and took up again where she'd left off.
Thump, thump, thump.
She grunted between blows, puffs of dust rising violently from the tapestry like tubercular coughs.

When she got down to the last square foot of rug, Zeba stopped. She was panting. Her shoulder burned, and she sat on an overturned plastic bucket to catch her breath and let the muscles of her arm rest.

A bitter chill had settled over the village. Even indoors, the children's fingers blanched with cold. She took the carpet inside and spread it out on the floor, its colors no brighter than they were before she'd attacked its wool fibers. This, for some reason she could not put into words, brought tears to her eyes.

Zeba blew on her hands and rubbed them together. She turned when she heard the door clang behind her. Kamal unwound his black scarf and tossed a bag of walnuts and raisins on the table. Zeba smiled weakly at him, thinking his timing could not have been better.

“How perfect,” Zeba had declared, reaching for the kettle. “Basir's just brought back some fresh bread. I'll make some tea. It'll warm our bellies.”

“It's not for them. They can eat what's left from last night. I bought this for myself,” he declared.

Something in Kamal's voice prickled Zeba's skin. She looked up, abruptly. Kamal averted his eyes just as she turned to him. She watched closely as Kamal hung his hat and jacket on a hook in the hallway. She saw the slouch of his shoulders, the defiance in his chin, and the shadows around his eyes. How long had they been there without her seeing? She could barely breathe, her throat thick and tight.

Her voice faltered.

Kamal watched her from the corner of his eye. He did not move toward her or away from her. They stood in measured space, precisely six steps apart from each other, his feet planted firmly on the carpet she'd tried to clean just moments ago. He could see the rare silver threads in her hair. She could almost feel the stubble on his face, the face that had rubbed against hers just last night when Kamal had pressed himself into his wife despite her small pleas of protest. Zeba's dusty fingers flittered to her lips.

But he's my husband. How could this be?

It was in him, that thing she could not name. That thing she could not speak.

“Zeba,” he said, turning his broad back to her. “Don't look for trouble.”