A House Without Windows (40 page)

YUSUF OPENED THE PLASTIC CONTAINER OF SAUTÉED SPINACH
and rice Aneesa had brought him, the contents resembling a green-and-white yin-yang symbol. Famished, he took in the aromatic steam of the white rice, a blend of cumin and salt. She'd even brought two squares of fresh bread. Yusuf tore off a piece of bread and shaped it around a lump of spinach, pink threads of rhubarb mixed in. His cheeks were round with food when Sultana walked into the office.

Yusuf could not conceal his surprise. He stood and grabbed a napkin. Holding it over his mouth with one hand to conceal his chewing, he motioned her over. She'd seen him and nodded, making her way to his desk.

“I'm interrupting your lunch,” she said somewhat apologetically.

Yusuf hoped not to choke as he forced the food down quickly. He swiped the napkin over his lips and slid back into his chair. They were across from each other, just as they had been in the interview room of Chil Mahtab.

“Don't worry about it,” he said, snapping the top back on the container. “Are you hungry? I could offer you some but—”

“Thank you, but I ate not long ago,” Sultana said. She was wearing the same olive-colored jacket with the sleeves rolled up. A yellow-and-green head scarf hid her hair, knotted high on her head. “Don't stop on my account, please.”

“It's fine. I wasn't that hungry anyway,” Yusuf said, clearing his throat. There was one other lawyer in the office, but his desk was on the opposite side of the room and a half wall separated them. He'd looked up with interest to see Sultana enter and kept glancing over as he spoke on the phone. It was unusual, of course, to have a young woman visit.

“You got my message. I'm surprised to see you.”

“I'm sure you are. I could have called, but I thought it might be better to stop by.”

“I'm glad you did. Look, let me say that I'm sorry about the way our last conversation went. I didn't mean to try to use you or manipulate you into a story.”

“But that's what you were doing, wasn't it?” She still had her handbag on her shoulder, and Yusuf wished she would set it down. She looked like she might walk out at any second.

“It . . . it was,” he admitted. “Look, I've been struggling with Zeba's case. It's a tragedy from many angles, and as much as I've tried, well, the court just won't see why she shouldn't be hanged. The holes in the prosecutor's case are forgiven, when they really shouldn't be.”

“I'm sure that's true. But do you honestly think that a man who burned a page of the Qur'an, if that's what he did, should be killed by his wife? I don't think you do, and that's why I wanted to speak to you again. Maybe there's a better angle to the story.”

Yusuf rested his elbows on the desk. It was Wednesday, about twenty-four hours from the time of the sentencing. He had yet to hear from Zeba's parents. He'd called them both, but neither had answered the phone.

“I could tell you the whole story, but it's an ugly one and not anything that you can print. The details can't go public.”

“What is it?” Sultana was, of course, curious. It was her job to ask questions, and that was precisely why she'd made the trip into this office.

“I need you to promise to respect what Zeba's kept private.”

“I promise.” Sultana slid the strap of her bag off her shoulder and
let it rest on the floor. She sat back in the chair and listened as Yusuf told her about the little girl, his voice low and grim. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but did not interrupt or move from the seat. Yusuf told her about Zeba's fears that the girl would be shamed publicly if word got out, that the village would seek out the victim and her life would be ruined once again. He didn't have to explain Zeba's concerns. Sultana understood them in the way any woman would because it all came down to honor.

The girl had been stripped of her honor, of her future. If the world knew, she would never live a life without shame.

It was the greatest injustice, and it made Sultana's blood boil.

“She has four children. Zeba is all they have. If they lose her, they lose everything.”

“Are you certain about this story?” Sultana asked. She didn't doubt it though. There was no reason to.

“I'm certain,” he said, nodding. “The way she talked about it . . . it's the truth. That's the reason why I said what I did to you. She's going to be sentenced tomorrow, and the judge has made it pretty clear that he wants to honor the law. I think he wants to see her hanged.”

Sultana crossed her legs and tapped a finger on her chin.

“What can be done? Even if I go to the judge with rumors about her husband, what good will that do?”

“It's a long shot, but it's all I have. I've tried everything else.” And he had, even using the mullah and Gulnaz to sway the judge toward mercy. It was a tragic shift, he realized, that he was now simply asking for mercy instead of justice or freedom.

“And you're thinking that if I tell the judge I'm going to run a story about the dead husband, that I'm going to write about the accusations made against him about Qur'an burning, that he'll feel pressured not to hang the woman who killed him?”

“I think it's a possibility . . . based on what I've seen of this judge.”

“I just don't know.” Sultana pursed her lips and considered Yusuf carefully.

The other attorney was off the phone now and looking in their direction. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Yusuf who his visitor was. Yusuf raised a hand and looked back at his desk. He was in no mood to explain.

“Village rumors. I've never wanted to have anything to do with them. They'll be the death of all of us, I swear,” Sultana whispered.

Yusuf ran his fingers through his hair. He had every reason to anticipate defeat in this case. The odds had been against him from the beginning. A dead husband, a reticent wife, no witnesses or possible suspects. She should have been hung long ago.

Sultana stood up abruptly, smoothing her jacket over the seat of her pants. She reached for her handbag.

“You're leaving?” Yusuf said. He didn't want her to go. If nothing else, he wanted her to stay and tell him that he'd done everything he could have done. She was the only other person who knew the truth.

“I've got to be getting back,” she said. She met his gaze and saw the dismay in his eyes. He saw the determination in hers. “And I want to call the judge before it gets too late.”

QAZI NAJEEB HUNG UP THE PHONE AND RUBBED THE CURL OF HIS
ear between two fingers.

“Who was that?” his wife called from the next room.

He didn't notice, his ear still buzzing from his conversation with Mullah Habibullah.

“Was it Shazia? Did she say if they're going to Kabul for the holidays?”

He felt the dull ache of acid rising in his chest and wasn't sure if he should blame his wife's
qorma
or the news he'd just received from his friend. He marveled at how little he'd known of this man, even after all these years, accepting blindly that the mullah had moved from another province to serve the people. That was only a sliver of the truth. The judge, who was on a daily basis presented with lies and false stories, felt he should have detected the holes in this one.

But he hadn't.

“Old man, have you gone deaf?” his wife shouted. She was standing in the doorway, an arched frame between the two rooms. She held a half-washed frying pan in one hand.

“Did you say something?”

“Did I say something?” she repeated in disbelief.

“Okay, it's clear you did. What was it?”

“I asked if your sister called.”

Qazi Najeeb shook his head.

“Then call her and ask her if they're going to Kabul for the holidays. I want to ask her to pick up some fabric for me.”

“I'll call her tomorrow,” he mumbled. “Is there any tea left in the pot?”

“No. I'll put some water to boil,” his wife said, turning to go back into the kitchen. She paused just before she disappeared completely. “Have you thought about closing your eyes for a few minutes? You look exhausted.”

Qazi Najeeb nodded. She was a good wife, he admitted, even if she did strip him of all his airs the moment he walked through the door. She had the decency to do it only when they were alone and often reminded him that she saw it as her duty to do so.
The rest of the world bows their heads to you, dear judge. It's my job to remind you you're just a man.

“I'm going to walk for a few minutes. My legs feel stiff.”

“Those knees of yours are getting worse. I'm going to steep some herbs and ginger for them.”

As the judge bent one knee and pushed himself to standing, he considered the way he'd thought of Gulnaz. Those eyes of hers, that pair of emeralds had entranced him, made him regret that he'd not courted her with more gusto in his youth. Would his body have ached the way it did if he'd spent a lifetime with her? Or would she have driven him away the way she had the mullah?

“When are you going to be declaring the verdict for that case?” she called from out of view.

“Tomorrow.” He straightened his tunic, scowling to see two splotches of red grease on his shirt from lunch.

“Thursday? Just before the weekend? Really, are you so callous that you would announce a death sentence on the eve of our day of prayer?”

“Is there a better day of the week to be sentenced to death?” he asked facetiously. Najeeb heard the low whistle of the teakettle.

“You know what I mean.”

“Look, I've already got two lawyers pestering me with this case. I don't need a third one at home.”

“Can you imagine me working as a lawyer?” His wife laughed. She had reached only the fourth grade before being pulled out to tend to her younger siblings. And though she was literate, she'd never contemplated working outside the home, nor had any of the women in her family. It was not an idea the
qazi
would have ever entertained even if she had.

Qazi Najeeb's thoughts flitted back to Zeba. She might very well be the mullah's daughter, but as far as he could tell, there was no question that she'd killed her husband.

He stood and made his way through the front door and into the courtyard. He inhaled deeply, the sweet fragrance of his wife's dill plants restoring him. He paused to touch the yellow umbrella flowers and dragged his fingers through the feathery leaves.

Habibullah had sounded embarrassed on the phone, though more so because he'd lied about his background than because he'd left his wife and children. Najeeb wanted to do his friend a favor, but he felt genuinely torn. He'd wanted so badly to make this case a landmark one. He'd envisioned himself as a pioneer, a man who would be remembered for ushering in a new age of Afghan jurisprudence. It was not crazy to imagine that he might be sought out for a position on an appellate court or perhaps even the Supreme Court, forever tying his own legacy to that of Afghanistan.

Zeba's four children probably grieved their father. They deserved to see justice, he reasoned, even if Habibullah saw it differently.

He was a terrible man,
his old friend had said at last,
a man who didn't deserve the wife and children he had. Zeba's a good woman. She's devout and pure in her heart. Her husband is responsible for this mess, not her.

My friend,
Najeeb had replied somberly,
I understand this is disappointing for you as a father. But how could she not be responsible? And I have to wonder how well you could know her anyway. I know she's your daughter, but you haven't seen her in decades. Think of how different every one of us is compared to how we were thirty years ago.

In the end, he'd promised to take the mullah's entreaties into consideration and do anything he could to honor his friend's request. He swore not to breathe a word of their relationship to anyone else and he'd meant it. If this case did attract attention, Najeeb did not want too much scrutiny to land on the shrine. The mullah was truly helping people there, and the judge didn't see any reason to drag a man of God's good works through the mud.

Najeeb stepped into the street, pulling his
tasbeh
from his vest pocket. He lived on a lane of similar one-storied homes, each bordered by an outer wall that lent privacy to their inner lives. It made the road into something of a corridor, high walls on either side. Najeeb closed the metal door behind him, shuttering his sanctuary from the view of neighbors and passersby. He thought of the swarms of people who'd entered Zeba's home that day and surrounded her, as the police report had described. How many had there been? Dozens of gawkers trespassing a family's private life. That was what these women did not understand, Najeeb thought. All the women of Chil Mahtab had taken down their walls with their crimes, they'd pulled aside their
purdah,
their protective veil. Some had flaunted their relationships with men. Some had worked late hours with male colleagues. Some had left their fathers' homes. They should have anticipated the consequences.

Najeeb had not made it to the end of his block when he stopped abruptly. He narrowed his eyes and wondered if his vision was not in worse shape than his knees. There was no mistaking her, though.

“What are you doing here?” he asked incredulously.

“Qazi-
sahib,
” Gulnaz said, her voice even and purposeful. “I need to speak to you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I asked people. You're well known in this neighborhood.”

He'd stopped thumbing the beads of his
tasbeh
.

“What do you want?” he asked, wondering if he should turn her away without waiting for an answer. He'd already begun to suspect that he'd been too lenient on Zeba in the first few weeks of the
case. He felt manipulated now, knowing that Gulnaz was the type of woman to drive a decent husband away. It gave him all the more reason to believe Zeba had begun to follow in her mother's footsteps but then veered down an even deadlier path.

“I need to speak to you.”

“Quickly. I have things to do and you're interrupting my evening.” He folded his arms across his chest, the beads draped over his elbow. Gulnaz took a deep breath and began the speech she'd rehearsed on her way to the judge's home.

“Qazi-
sahib,
you and I are from the same village. We met as children. We lived in the shadow of the same
masjid
and waded through the same streams. You've known my family and have been welcomed into our home. I am coming to you now to ask for mercy. My daughter suffered with that man, and it is no secret what kind of man he was.”

“Because we are from the same village does not mean I should ignore a crime. It's my duty as a judge to mete out justice.”

“We all want justice.”

“Then you'll understand that I must do the right thing here. I know she's your daughter, but I'm responsible for making sure the law is respected. We cannot afford to let our nation fall into anarchy again and this is where it starts.”

“What about his crimes? His crimes went unpunished. He was a drinker, a man without a decent friend. He did not pray or fast or follow the words of God. A black carpet is not made white by washing. My daughter did her best to live with this man and be a good wife to him, but she could not absolve him of his sins.”

“She didn't need to absolve him. She could have left judgment up to the law or to Allah.”

“I'm asking you to consider her children. Her son is devastated, her three daughters have no one now. They've lost both their parents. Do we really need more orphans in this world? Let them have their mother back, please!”

“Criminals cannot hide behind their children.” It was not that he
was a callous man. Of course he'd taken into consideration that Zeba had left four children behind when she'd been arrested. He also knew the youngest was barely a year old. He'd memorized these details the first day he reviewed her case and could almost picture her little ones, their anonymous faces sometimes replaced by those of his grandchildren. He kept these things to himself.

“I do not have money to offer you, Qazi Najeeb. The days when my family lived comfortably are long gone. I've been alone for most of my adult life, and my son struggles to feed and clothe his family.”

Najeeb grew angry at her implication.

“I've not asked you for a penny! Khanum, I have always been grateful to your father, the
murshid
. He gave my own father much hope when we had nearly none. My brother survived his illness and is alive and well even now. Do you really think I would ask for money after all that?”

Gulnaz said nothing. The sun had dipped behind wispy clouds, the sky a canvas streaked with paprika and saffron. The spiny profile of the mountains cut into the sunset. She wasn't really asking for mercy. She was asking for justice.

“There's something else you need to know.”

Gulnaz scanned the street and saw children playing with a bicycle tire nearby. There was no one within earshot.

“It was someone else who actually killed him.”

The judge nodded as if he'd expected Gulnaz to come up with something more unbelievable in retort.

“Like who? I'd be very interested to know who else might have been there. No one's said anything about someone else being there that day, including your daughter!”

“If you hang my daughter, you'll be making her a martyr.”

“A martyr?” he scoffed. “A martyr for what?”

“She is at the court's mercy because she tried to save a life that day. What I'm about to tell you is the absolute truth though I cannot provide any evidence for it, and my daughter does not wish for anyone
to find out about this. She's not breathed a word of it to you since her arrest because she fears for the safety of a young girl.”

Najeeb felt the ache in his chest start up again. He would eat a spoonful of yogurt before going to bed and see if that settled the acid.

“Explain.”

Gulnaz bit her lower lip. She had not bothered to tell Zeba she would be speaking to the judge and had certainly not discussed with her daughter what she would be telling him. But what would happen if Zeba were to find out about this conversation? She would either go right back to resenting her mother, which Gulnaz had become accustomed to, or she would be grateful. It was a chance she was willing to take.

“The day came when Zeba learned what kind of man he truly was. She found him attacking a young girl in their own home, defiling a school-age girl. That, dear judge, is the heart of the matter. All that came after, including her enduring nineteen days of the shrine, was a woman trying to protect the honor of an innocent child.”

Najeeb huffed in exasperation. At every turn, there was some new disparaging revelation about the dead man.
Convenient,
he thought,
that the man was in no position to defend himself.
His family didn't do much to defend him either, probably because of the nasty rumors floating around about him and the desecration of the Qur'an.

“A child,” Gulnaz repeated slowly for emphasis. “You're a father and a decent man. Imagine how Zeba felt to see such an atrocity in her own home.”

“Yes, Khanum, I am a father,” Najeeb said defiantly. She'd come here because she thought she could sway his thinking. She thought she could tease his decision in Zeba's favor, but it wasn't as simple as she'd anticipated. Qazi Najeeb felt a bit smug. He knew her better than she thought. “I have three sons and two daughters, all grown and raising families of their own. If there's one thing I know as a father, it's that a mother would do anything for her children.”

Gulnaz pulled her shoulders back sharply. She shook her head.

“You've misunderstood me.”

“No, I don't think I have,” Qazi Najeeb said.

“I've come to you with the truth,” Gulnaz insisted.

“You think you're so smart. You always have.”

Had she done her daughter any good by coming here or had she simply made matters worse? She would call Yusuf tonight and tell him what she had done. The judge knew it all now, for better or worse.

The sun was nearly hidden behind the mountains now. Sunsets were odd in that sense—seeming to move in accelerated time. It was Wednesday, and this was the last sunset before the judge would announce Zeba's sentence. After that, how many sunsets would her daughter have left and how quickly would they pass? Time had never pressed on Gulnaz's heart as it did now that days and hours measured her daughter's life. Gulnaz lowered her gaze slightly so the judge wouldn't see that her bewitching eyes had misted.