Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

Zeba cringed at the thought.

“You never told me this.”

“There was no reason to tell you.”

Zeba let her fingers drop from the fence. Her arms were beginning to ache. It was hard to hold on for too long.

“Rafi knew?”

“Rafi was old enough and wise enough to see what was happening, but he only saw bits and pieces. I didn’t want either of you to know.”

Zeba understood completely. How could she blame her mother for keeping this secret when she now wanted to spare her own children the shame of the truth she’d just learned?

“Did you go to my grandfather?”

Gulnaz shook her head.

“What could he have done for me? He was an old man by then, and people had become convinced that he was a spy for the British. I grew up in that home, and I knew he was not as powerful as he would have had people believe. To this day he won’t admit it, but I can tell you — that man was full of tricks.”

Zeba turned her gaze to the ground.

“Zeba- jan, there’s a special kind of hurt in learning that your parents are not the angels or saviors you wish them to be. I know it well.”

Zeba wanted to speak. She wanted to tell her mother that she hadn’t been resentful or disappointed in her, but the words wouldn’t take shape in her mouth.

“We survive it. We all survive learning the truth about our parents because you can’t stay a child forever.”

A light breeze blew between them, lifting wisps of Zeba’s hair and tickling the dampness behind her neck. Gulnaz shifted her weight and brushed at her skirt.

“You couldn’t save my father,” Zeba said blankly. Her legs were tucked under her, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her once-white pantaloons. “What makes you think you can help me now?”

“You are my daughter, Zeba. Just as I watched your grandfather practice his craft, you stood in my kitchen and watched everything I did. You know just how strong we were together. You saw what happened to those people who wished us harm. I kept you and your brother safe from the evil eye, and there were many around us. Whether or not you want to admit it, you know all my tricks. You know my secrets better than anyone, even if you turned your back to it. Nothing has changed. It’s all at your feet.”

Zeba’s head pounded. Her temples tightened under the sun’s glare, but somehow, Gulnaz was barely squinting. There was so much about her mother that Zeba still didn’t understand.

“I’ve brought you something,” Gulnaz whispered. “Not much, but at least a beginning.” With two fingers she reached into the inside of her dress sleeve, just past the cuff. She gave a slight tug and pulled out something Zeba recognized immediately, a taweez .

“Is this from Jawad?” Zeba let the folded blessing fall into the palm of her hand. Her fingers closed around it. She felt the years melt away. She was a child again, in awe of her mother who found ways to control the stars. This was precisely what she’d wanted. She’d wanted her mother to come and save her, to bend the winds in her favor this one time. If she were to dare to have hope, this was the form her hope would take.

“Of course it’s from Jawad. I wanted a taweez, not a scrap of paper. Jawad is the only one with real talent.”

Zeba closed her eyes and pictured Jawad. Even when Zeba had become a young woman, Jawad had looked right past her to Gulnaz. Zeba could picture him, his back hunched over a tiny square, his pen marks deliberate. Every taweez he created infuriated Zeba’s grandfather, Safatullah. Jawad was black magic while the murshid was God’s light.

“You believe in his talismans.”

“Because I’ve seen them work. It’s his craft. Your grandfather has his and I have mine. You can choose to believe in one or all of our methods but believing in something makes it a whole lot easier to rise in the morning.”

“My grandfather wouldn’t be happy. .”

“Your grandfather hasn’t been happy in years. Once people started to doubt him, his heart grew weak and never recovered. I’m a respectful daughter so I keep my activities quiet, but I am also your mother. Doing what I can for you — that is all I need to be concerned with now.”

“Madar- jan, I’m grateful. But I don’t want to feel. . I mean, there’s no reason for this to work,” Zeba said cautiously, eyeing her mother’s face to gauge her reaction.

Gulnaz brought her face so close to the fence Zeba could feel her mother’s breath on her cheek. They were together again, the feel of her mother’s touch lingering on Zeba’s skin. It was time moving forward and backward all at once.

“Tell me, my dear daughter, what have you got to lose?”

YOU’RE GOING TO READ YOURSELF BLIND.

Yusuf took off his glasses, the echo of his mother’s voice in his mind. Reading in the dim light of the evenings did strain his eyes. He knew full well even as he rubbed them that he was only making matters worse.

His apartment was on the third floor of a three-story building. Off the living room was a balcony big enough to fit one folding chair. It boasted an unenticing view of another apartment building with curtained windows and clotheslines strung from balcony to balcony. There was a galley kitchen tucked to one side and a bedroom behind that. The bathroom was functional and simple. For Yusuf, who’d spent years with his siblings and parents in a cramped, two-bedroom Flushing apartment, these quarters were more than he needed.

Yusuf had set up a small table with two chairs in a corner of the living room. The set doubled as his kitchen table and home office. His living room had a glass coffee table and a threadbare sofa. The walls were bare except for a plastic framed picture of Mecca that had come with the apartment.

Kind of like hotel Bibles, thought Yusuf when he’d first seen it and not because he had any disdain for his religion. Rather, he believed, he’d developed a certain objectivity to the world around him because he’d lived elsewhere.

He pulled a leather toiletry bag from the hall closet.

There were four bottles of eyedrops left. He cursed himself for not bringing more. He hadn’t anticipated the effect the wind-spun dust would have on his eyes.

So much for being a native.

He shook the tiny white bottle and decided to save what remained. It would be months before he returned to the United States, and the air wasn’t going to get any better.

Yusuf was accustomed to bouts of insomnia. Big cases kept him up, and he would go weeks at a time, sleeping just three hours a night. That was Yusuf’s way. He made lists of precedents to look up, holes in his arguments, and research he still needed to complete. Statute by statute, point by point — it was a meticulous process, like extracting pomegranate seeds one by one. His restlessness was not entirely because of Zeba, though. Yesterday’s conversation with Meena had taken him by surprise. He was doing his best to put it out of his mind and focus on the work at hand.

Yusuf poured himself another cup of black tea. Tea replaced coffee here, not because coffee couldn’t be found but because the Afghan taste for tea had come back to him quickly.

A much needed draft slipped in through a half-open window. It carried the faint smell of blood from the butcher shop below the apartments.

Yusuf was only fifteen minutes away from the prison by taxi. Just fifteen minutes between him and Zeba, his reticent client. He was close enough that he could see her on a daily basis if he chose to, but he didn’t bother. He thought that if he pulled back, she might realize how badly she needed his help. He wasn’t usually a fan of playing games, but defending Zeba required creativity on all fronts. Her chances of beating the charges were slim, at best.