Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

He pressed the talk button.

“YUSUF,” SHE STARTED, HER VOICE SMALL AND SERIOUS. “I DON’T want you to think badly of me. I didn’t know my mother had given my number to you. She likes you so much. . both my parents do. My whole family loves yours, actually.”

“Meena, what’s going on?”

“I need to tell you something. I’ve been trying to find a way around it, but I can’t come up with anything and I feel like you deserve the truth.”

Yusuf leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.

“Go ahead, Meena- qand, ” he urged, wondering if he was going too far by using endearments. “Tell me what it is.”

“I. . I’ve been in love with someone for the last year. My parents are not happy about it because they don’t like his family but. . but that doesn’t change anything for him or me. I’m so embarrassed to tell you this.”

In love with someone else. Yusuf blinked rapidly. He’d thought Meena had pulled away because she wanted more from him when the truth was that she wanted less.

“Oh, I see,” he said, wavering between anger and sadness.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem like. .”

“Listen, Meena, you don’t have to explain.”

“My mother was hoping that seeing you. . talking to you. . the possibility of going to America. . that it would change me. You know what I mean?”

He’d been a ploy — an unwitting pawn in Khala Zainab’s strategy.

“Listen, Meena. You should follow your heart,” Yusuf replied curtly. “No hard feelings. Thanks for letting me know. I’ve got lots of work to do here so. . good night, okay?”

“Oh, sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. I just. . yes, good night.”

With a click, it was over, and Yusuf was more disappointed than he should have been. They’d only spoken on the phone for a couple of weeks. They’d never held hands or talked over a cup of tea or brushed shoulders as they walked down the street. Why should he feel like he’d lost the girl he was meant to be with?

Yusuf groaned angrily, rolled onto his belly, and buried his face in his pillow. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he did need to get married.

MEZHGAN SAT CROSS-LEGGED IN FRONT OF ZEBA’S BED. SHE rarely woke this early in the morning, but she’d been particularly restless since Gulnaz’s visit.

“Zeba- jan, I want to ask you something.”

Zeba did not respond.

“Please. I know you’re awake. I can tell by the way you’re breathing.”

Zeba moaned, quietly enough that Mezhgan didn’t hear it. She sat up and yawned, wondering what could be so urgent that it had the girl rising with the sun.

“When is your mother coming back? Maybe you can ask her to help my situation. Would she do it?”

“My mother would tell you that this is your own mess and that you’ve got to deal with it. She would tell you it was a mistake to fall in love with a man before his family fell in love with you.”

Mezhgan was unperturbed. She blinked rapidly and pressed her palms against the small round of her belly and looked thoughtful.

“I bet you can help me. I bet you know how she does it anyway. You’ve got to tell me everything you know. Surely she must have done something similar in the past? Is there something I should eat? Maybe something I should feed my fiancé’s mother?”

“Fiancé?” Latifa laughed, awake now. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “If he were your fiancé, you wouldn’t be here. You want Zeba’s mother to wave a magic feather around so your movie star boyfriend will go running to your parents and beg for your hand in marriage. Psht, maybe if she does too good a job with it, you’ll have a whole crew of boys asking your father for your hand in marriage. Wouldn’t that be nice? You and your harami baby can choose a man together.”

“Don’t say that, Latifa. He wants to marry me but his parents. . they just haven’t agreed yet. You probably don’t know anything about jadu, but I know it can work. My uncle is married to a hideous-looking woman he wouldn’t otherwise have looked at, and my whole family knows it’s because she cast a spell on him. He wanted nothing to do with her one day and by the next week he was begging his parents to ask for her hand. Jadu, for certain.”

Latifa sat back down on her cot and rolled her eyes.

“Your uncle sounds an awful lot like a pregnant girl.”

“You’re curious, too,” Nafisa said, inserting herself into the conversation. “You nearly climbed the fence to get a better look at her when she came to visit!”

“What else is there to do here? I’ve been in this chicken coop with the same women for months and I’m tired of hearing all your stories. If Judgment Day comes and God has any questions about either of you, He should call me first. I’ll fill Him in with what you did with whom and when,” Latifa joked.

Nafisa and Mezhgan covered their mouths and squealed.

“Latifa! Watch what you say! God forgive you.” Nafisa sat up and let her legs dangle over the side of her bed, the one above Latifa’s.

“It’s true,” Latifa insisted. She pushed Nafisa’s legs aside and stood. “Come on, Zeba. Tell this poor girl what she wants to hear. Give her the secret recipe and help her find her way back to a respectable life. Spare the world the shame of another harami baby, will you, please?”

Mezhgan bit her lip.

“Shut your ugly mouth, Latifa,” Nafisa shot back. There was much she could tolerate from Latifa, but she drew the line when her cellmate referred to an unborn child as a bastard. “Stop calling the poor girl’s baby harami ! It’s not like you’ve got much to be proud of. Are you here because you were just too honorable for your family?”

The air was thick with tension. Mezhgan kept her gaze on Zeba’s bedsheet, fearful that anything she said would invite more insults. Nafisa looked down at Latifa from the top bunk, her arms folded across her chest defiantly.

Zeba broke the quiet with a couplet:

“Life’s made your heart as tense as a blister

Don’t spill its pus on your innocent sister.”

Latifa tapped her foot, annoyed.

“Fine, I won’t call him that,” she finally conceded, before her face broke into a smile. “And you’re right. My family’s not in the least proud of what I’ve done. But at least my belly’s not growing the evidence of my crime.”

Mezhgan smiled weakly and Nafisa’s shoulders relaxed. The banter between them filled the otherwise drab days.

“No, your belly is just growing, my chubby friend!”

Latifa chuckled and rubbed her belly as a gesture of truce. Heavyset to start with, she’d rounded considerably in her time in the prison. Her pumpkin-colored dress strained at the waist. Her face had grown fuller, like a waxing moon. At every meal, Latifa ate as if she’d received news that she would return to the world of scarcity tomorrow.

“Your friend is avoiding your question, Mezhgan. Looks like Khanum Zeba’s not interested in helping you,” Latifa teased.

Mezhgan sensed truth in Latifa’s words. She turned her attention back to Zeba.

“You will help me, won’t you? It would be the noble thing to do — to bring two families together with a respectable marriage. Think what a blessing it would be for this child. How could you possibly refuse?”

Zeba was nervous. These girls knew nothing about the jadu she’d learned from Gulnaz. They couldn’t possibly imagine the things she’d helped her mother do. Zeba felt ashamed to think of the concoctions she’d carried, the illnesses she’d delivered, the malice she’d stirred. Was it possible to use the tricks she’d learned without causing harm?