A House Without Windows

  His wife cried at times, heartbroken for a girl she’d never met. The girl was not their child. Why should they bother themselves with this? Had they not enough to worry about under their small, patchwork roof?

  “Raisins, golden ones the color of a pari’s hair and just as enticing! Green ones so perfect your husband will forget his troubles! Black ones to give you the figure of a movie star!”

  His voice was raspy. He’d thought of bringing one of his children with him. If he could teach his son to sound the call into the streets, he could save his breath for pushing the cart around. But the boy was young yet, and Walid wanted him to go to school. If they could read and write, they might stand a chance, and he would need them to care for him in his old age, which seemed to be fast approaching. Judgment Day.

  Walid would have much to answer for on Judgment Day. What would the most righteous person do with this? Could he do better than standing outside the poor girl’s door and reminding her of the raisins that had ruined her?

  He would stay away from this block. He would never hawk his raisins or nuts on this street again. He would lower his voice even one block away so she wouldn’t be tortured by his ridiculous chants. He would leave the poor girl in peace. It wouldn’t be great, but it would be better.

  Walid heard the creak of metal behind him.

  He should have rejoiced. He’d spent years walking up and down these streets, hoping to hear that creak, the sign that he would sell a sack of walnuts or a half kilo of raisins. He would laugh and smile and watch walnuts tumble into a brown paper bag. He would take a few bills and know that there would be rice, tomatoes, and onions for tomorrow or the day after. He would have a reason to wake up in the morning and bring his goods through the streets again. The sound of a door opening was, usually, a blessing.

  He knew, without looking, that someone stood in that doorway. Someone was staring at his back and waiting for him to turn around.

  The door scraped again, slowly and deliberately. Walid breathed a sigh of relief to hear it close. He’d been released. There would not be a conversation today, and he had promised himself a thousand times, in the few weighted seconds that had just passed, that he would never dare to roll his cart down this block again.

  Walid picked up the handles of his cart, his shoulder blades pulling together with resolve. Leave the family to their private matters, he told himself. It was the only respectable thing to do. His wife would understand. She would stop looking from their daughters to him with those dark, castigating eyes.

  The wheels had not yet made one full rotation before Walid was stopped short.

  “Agha-sahib, don’t go.”

  He took a deep breath and turned around. The metal door wasn’t closed at all. It was open, so narrowly that Walid could not see the speaker’s face but wide enough that a mother’s heart could spill its caged sorrows into the unpaved street.

  CHAPTER 31

  YUSUF FELT THE CAR’S SUSPENSION STRUGGLE WITH THE ROUGH road. With every jostle, he was further convinced that coming to the shrine was an even worse idea than he’d originally thought.

  The car had puttered down the long dirt road leading to a small one-story clay-and-mud building with blue window frames and an arched doorway. A man emerged just as they parked the car.

  Zeba stared out the window and moaned softly. “Yusuf, why did you let them bring me here?”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” he mumbled. If they’d been assigned to any other judge, they wouldn’t be here, Yusuf noted. Then again, with any other judge, Zeba might have been convicted long ago.

  “Welcome,” the man said as Yusuf, Zeba, the prosecutor, and one male prison guard stepped out of the car. “I am Mullah Habibullah. Welcome to the shrine.”

  Zeba’s ankles had been chained together. Yusuf, distracted by the surroundings, did not notice her shuffle her feet to position herself closer to him than the male prison guard.

  The prosecutor shook Habibullah’s hands and put a hand on his elbow.

  “Thank you, Mullah-sahib. I’m sure your esteemed friend, Qazi Najeeb, explained the situation to you. We’re here to have this woman evaluated,” he said, nodding his head in Zeba’s direction. “She’s killed her husband and has been acting erratically. We need your opinion on whether or not she’s insane.”

  Yusuf stepped toward Habibullah with an outstretched hand that Habibullah shook firmly.

  “I’m this woman’s defense lawyer,” Yusuf explained.

  “I thought you might be,” Habibullah said with a hint of a smile. He turned his attention to Zeba, studying her while she kept her eyes to the ground. He was a slight man, dressed in a beige tunic and pantaloons. Over his tunic, he wore a military green vest with zippered pockets. The end of a small turban dangled past his left ear and hung as low as his salt-and-pepper beard.

  “Forgive me, Mullah-sahib, but how long do you think you’ll need to evaluate this woman? I want to be back in the office in the afternoon.”

  For once, Yusuf and the prosecutor were on the same page. Yusuf had promised to report back to Aneesa, who had seemed entertained by the prospect of his client being evaluated at the local shrine.

  He’ll find her insane only if he thinks he can save her, she’d predicted. But I still don’t think the judge is going to stand by any insanity defense. It’s a reach, even for someone as optimistic as you.

  “Gentleman, I can sense your uncertainty. Let me show you around, and I’m sure you’ll feel more reassured.”

  Habibullah walked, his fingers casually intertwined behind his back, toward a small stand-alone structure that stood in the shade of a looming acacia tree.

  The lawyers shot each other a look before following.

  “Bring her,” the mullah called out without turning his head. The prison guard let out a heavy sigh. He crouched down and undid the shackles from Zeba’s ankles, replacing them on her wrists. When he was done, he motioned for her to follow the others.

  They bowed their heads as they stepped through the low door frame. Inside the mausoleum, the ceilings were elevated, and one side of the room had a small bench built into the clay wall. In the center of the room was a concrete tomb, over which neatly lay a green cloth with gold-embroidered Qur’anic scripture. The room was barely large enough for all of them to fit inside. A narrow shaft of daylight entered through a rectangular window and shone onto the green flag, on a patch it had faded over time.

  Zeba turned away from the tomb. There was too much death in this small room for her liking. Her eyes fell on a few handwritten messages scrawled on the walls.

  There is no God but Allah.

  Allah, the All-Knowing and the Beneficent.

  “This tomb, my friends, is the tomb of Hazrat Rahman. He was a wise and learned man, a true disciple of the Qur’an. He traveled to Mecca twenty times in his life, and it’s widely known that he was the founder of this village.”

  Yusuf looked at Zeba, who had moved from the corner toward the small window. She was staring out at the chain-link fence with ribbons of every color tied to the latticework, loose ends flapping hopefully in the soft breeze. Just beyond the fence was an open yard with an L-shaped structure on one end. Yusuf saw Zeba’s eyes narrow in on the long flat-roofed structure, barely tall enough for a man to stand in. He could see her breathing quicken.

  “What’s that building over there, Mullah-sahib? The one past the fence . . .”

  The mullah pointed to the door.

  “Let’s step outside and I will tell you.”

  Zeba was glad to be back out of the stifling room.

  “That’s where I’ve treated some people who have come to me with very serious problems of mind and soul,” he explained, his voice rich with pride. “This shrine is stronger than any medication, when one believes.”

  “What kind of treatments do you provide?” Yusuf asked, nearly choking on the word “treatments.”

  Too many people, Yusuf thought, put faith in talismans, trinkets, and superstitions. B
ut Yusuf was also hesitant to criticize. He’d suffered breathing problems as a child. When he was two years old, he’d had an attack so severe that his mother and father had feared he wouldn’t survive. His mother had taken him to a doctor, but the elixir he’d prescribed had done very little for Yusuf. His mother, watching her son’s stomach heave and chest rattle with cough, had then taken him to a shrine in Kabul where a mullah had prayed for him and another man had written a talisman. It was a tiny folded piece of paper wrapped in cloth that Yusuf’s mother had pinned to the inside of his shirt, just over his left chest. In two days, his shortness of breath had resolved, and in the following years, his asthmatic attacks came much less often and were much milder. His mother had been convinced that the talisman, not the doctor’s prescription, had done the trick. Yusuf, having heard the story a few dozen times growing up, had accepted it as truth.

  “Our prayers are more powerful than any tool, any drug, any weapon. I pray for the poor individuals who come here to Hazrat Rahman’s tomb and those who tie their wishes to the fence. God is listening, always, to those who believe.”

  “And what’s over there?” Yusuf said, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. He pointed to the structure Zeba had noticed from inside the mausoleum. He could make out what looked like a row of honeycomb cells, open to the fenced-in courtyard.

  Zeba walked to a large rock and sat on it. She let her head fall toward her knees. The prison guard eyed her with suspicion but let her be.

  “That’s where I treat some of the more serious cases,” the mullah said with his head cocked to the side. “Not everyone’s illness can be cured with a simple prayer. Sometimes, it takes a period of cleansing the mind and body. Sometimes those who are ill need to be confined in a place of solitude where their energies can be channeled into conquering their maladies. This is that place.”

  “You have people in there?”

  “I do,” Mullah Habibullah stated. “Sometimes they wander through the yard. Most of the time they sleep or talk to themselves.”

  “What about food and drink?” Yusuf asked. The prosecutor listened in. He was familiar with this shrine, though he’d never been here personally.

  “They are fed bread and black pepper along with plenty of water. These are the foods that we’ve learned treat the ailments of the mind. Other foods can poison the healing process or delay their recovery. This is the best way to get true relief.”

  “Bread and black pepper? That’s all they’re fed?” Yusuf was incredulous. How could such a place actually exist? There were hospitals in every major city, and the nearest one was not that far from this shrine. Why wouldn’t families take their loved ones there instead?”

  “For every patient those hospitals treat, there are a hundred more waiting to be seen. You’re skeptical of this idea, but that’s only because you haven’t seen what this place can do. I assure you, if you speak to the patients who have passed through this shrine, they will tell you how grateful they are for having been cured here.”

  Yusuf bit his tongue.

  “Mullah-sahib,” the prosecutor said politely. “I’m very glad to have seen the shrine and hear about your work. The judge spoke highly of your skills and we are eager to hear your assessment of this woman. What do you need to do to evaluate her?”

  “Yes, the woman.” The mullah turned his attention to Zeba, who looked up at the circle of men standing a few feet away. “Let me speak with her. Let us go inside, and my son will serve you a cup of tea to revive your spirits.”

  Yusuf stole one last glance at the cells beyond the fence, wondering if he could spy one of the patients the mullah was treating, but there was not even a shadow of movement. The mullah could be blowing smoke, he thought. There might not be a single soul in those cells.

  They went into the building where a burgundy carpet with an elephant foot motif lay on the floor. There were two floor cushions with wool-covered pillows resting against the wall.

  The prosecutor took a seat on the cushions and a boy, no more than ten years old, came in from a back room with a silver tray holding four small cups of tea. He placed a cup before each of the lawyers and took the other two to the plastic table and chairs outside where Mullah Habibullah sat facing Zeba. The prison guard stood a few feet away, talking quietly on his mobile phone.

  “What do you think of this place?” the mullah asked.

  Zeba refused to meet his gaze. She stared at the branches of the acacia tree. The mullah’s eyebrows lifted with interest.

  “What crime have you been arrested for?” The mullah’s eyes were soft and reassuring.

  Zeba’s voice was raspy. The dusty air had dried her throat, but she refused to take even a sip of the steamy amber tea.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Mullah Habibullah was taken aback by her acidic tone. Not even the most insane patient had been so insolent.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Zeba looked away, as if she’d already lost interest in her own question.

  “Why are you in jail?” the mullah repeated.

  “He must have told you.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  Zeba smirked.

  “Because God intended for me to go to prison and I am His disciple. Because some men can talk from both corners of their mouths at the same time. Because my lawyer thinks he is going to save my life when my mother and grandfather, with all the tricks they have between them, could not do a thing for me.”

  The mullah’s eyes narrowed.

  “Your mother and your grandfather?”

  He leaned in closer, staring so hard that Zeba turned in her chair and kept her shoulder toward him. She lowered her eyes.

  “Who is your grandfather?”

  “My grandfather, Safatullah, is a murshid. He’s not known here. This is too far from our village.”

  The mullah nodded slowly.

  “I see,” he whispered. He stood and wandered a few steps away. His back was to Zeba as he stared at the spreading branches of the acacia tree.

  “They say you killed your husband. Did you?”

  Zeba laughed.

  “Everyone wants to talk about my dead husband—except me.”

  “Was he a bad man?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about him. Listen, Mullah-sahib, I’m not crazy. There’s no reason for me to be here. If they think I should be in prison, then send me back there, please.”

  The mullah cleared his throat before turning again to face Zeba.

  “You must know what happened to your husband. Have you told your family anything? Your . . . your mother or your grandfather?”

  “There’s nothing for me to say. They have their police reports.”

  “I heard as much,” he said, returning to his chair. He pulled it a few inches closer to Zeba before settling in. Zeba tried not to recoil too visibly at his closeness. Yusuf and the prosecutor were just inside, she reminded herself.

  “What has your family said about this? Do they believe in your innocence?”

  “My mother . . .” Zeba began. She was surprised to hear her voice quaver with emotion at the mention of her mother. “She has always believed in my innocence. There is no mother like her. My brother found me a lawyer. They are my family. I have no one else.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Whether he believes in my innocence or not doesn’t matter. He can do nothing for me.”

  “Is that hatred in your voice?”

  “For my grandfather?” Zeba was taken aback at the mullah’s comment.

  “No, not your grandfather. Your husband,” he said pensively. “The wrong spouse can make a person crazy. Or can at least make a person do crazy things.”

  “I told you,” Zeba said through gritted teeth. “I’m not crazy.”

  Crazy was a river. It swept some away, drowning them even as they clawed for a rocky hold. If she let herself think too long on what had happened to Kamal or what Kamal had done or what had become of her child
ren or what might have already happened to her children, Zeba felt the unmistakable rush of water between her toes, then lapping at her calves, cold and threatening.

  Zeba fought it off.

  “Like an emerald ring,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?” Mullah Habibullah asked.

  “Do you know that if you feed an emerald to a chicken, it will pass through its belly and come out the other side without a mark—once you wipe the shit away, of course. All you have to do is be patient and trust the entrails of the chicken to return the truth to you. Then you know it’s really emerald.”

  The mullah frowned to hear her curse.

  “Are you suggesting I pass you through the bowels of a chicken? Would you come out unblemished?”

  The thought of being squeezed through the guts of a hen made Zeba’s lips curl with amusement. She drew her head scarf across her face to hide her mouth. This was how she kept the floodwaters at bay. She found reasons to smile, even as she sat a few meters away from what looked like a row of crypts.

  The mullah noticed the crinkling at the corners of her eyes. He peered at her with curiosity.

  “You can’t tell by looking at me? You really don’t know?” Zeba jeered as she thrust her chair back. “Mullah-sahib, I’ve already slithered through the bowels of a beast. There’s no reason to test me anymore.”

  The mullah picked up the thermos his son had left on the table and refilled his cup. A swirl of black leaves slipped out, a thousand unfurled flags. The leaves had yet to settle when the sound of a rattling chain made Zeba turn her head away from the hills and toward the desiccated honeycomb. The mullah followed her gaze, then traced his path back to her face and the shadows below her eyes. Her face was the shape of an owl’s, with round, inky eyes and a prominent widow’s peak. Her olive skin was smooth, but the last few weeks had sapped any natural flush from her cheeks.