Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“Take her to the interview room and watch over her until she calms down. She’s not going to get away with acting like this in my prison,” the director said, her arms folded across her chest. Her words cut through the shouts and made Zeba go still. Her legs straightened, and she was standing on her own.

“This is not prison. Prison is out there,” said Zeba in a throaty, singsong voice. “I’m no one’s slave. I’m no one’s prisoner. God as my witness, I’m unshackled!”

“Not for long, I’m sure. My God, Zeba. You’re as crazy as we always thought you were,” Latifa shouted from far enough away that Zeba’s foot couldn’t reach her.

Yusuf watched carefully as his client was led down the hallway, her back now straight with a dignity that only an insane person could feel. Maybe Latifa was right, he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, Zeba was as crazy as she seemed to be.

YUSUF STOOD WITH CHIEF HAKIMI AT THE DOOR TO ZEBA’S home. Hakimi pushed the door in.

“This is the scene of the crime,” he announced dramatically. “I gathered what evidence I could. It was obvious she had killed her husband.”

They stepped into the courtyard. The absence of life hit Yusuf harder than the shadow of death. This had been a home, and the ghosts of its inhabitants seemed to be present. Yusuf could almost hear the echoes of an everyday existence in the courtyard: the scrape of a spatula against an aluminum pot, the pungent smell of seared garlic and onions, the soft giggles of sisters sharing secrets, the hum of a mother with her children at her feet.

They were gone.

“Where was Khanum Zeba when you got here?”

“Right there,” Hakimi said, pointing to the front wall of the house. “She was sitting on the ground, and all the neighbors had gathered around her. Her children — they were shaken up. She was a bad sight. The blood on her hands was already dry. The baby was crying. I don’t know how long she’d been sitting like that. She wasn’t saying much.”

Thank goodness for that, Yusuf thought.

“People were very upset. They didn’t know what to think. Nothing like this should have happened in our town. The women couldn’t believe she would have done such a thing, but it happens.”

“What happens?” Yusuf said without turning to the police chief. He sensed that looking this man in the eye made him uncomfortable, and he wanted to hear Hakimi’s unfiltered thoughts.

“Women lose their minds. Maybe he did something to make her that way. I don’t know. I didn’t know either of them very well, but I know the rest of his family. This has been very hard on them.”

“So you think Khanum Zeba flew into a rage and killed her husband?”

“Yes, that’s. . well, then why else would I arrest her?” Hakimi replied defensively.

“Of course. Anyone in your shoes would have done the same,” Yusuf reassured. He kept his tone casual and friendly. “As you described it, there was no obvious reason to think Khanum Zeba hadn’t been the one to kill her husband. But let me ask you this. While you were here with the neighbors and friends, did anyone come forward to say they’d heard any shouting or that they’d seen anything unusual that day? Maybe someone else entering or leaving the home? I’m not saying you did the wrong thing, but I’m just curious if there were any other sides to the story that need to be investigated.”

But Hakimi’s shoulders stiffened.

“I don’t need you to tell me I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing. I’m the police chief here. What you need to be asking is what your darling Khanum Zeba did — not what I did! Where are you from, anyway?”

It was Yusuf’s turn to tense.

“I am not questioning you. This is a misunderstanding. I’m only trying to make sure I know the full story so that I can do my job and provide Khanum Zeba with a reasonable defense.”

“Do what you need to do then. I will wait here for you to finish,” Hakimi huffed and turned to take a seat in an upturned plastic chair in the courtyard. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll be watching.”

“Of course. I’ll just be a few moments.”

Yusuf took a deep breath. How had this conversation gone so wrong? He’d meant to befriend Hakimi, to make him an ally. He strolled through the house. There was nothing unusual about it. There was the usual sparse kitchen area with a few items spread out, as if someone would walk in any moment and pick up where they’d left off. The rooms were small and simple with floor cushions and a single wooden-armed sofa. A thermos sat on the living room floor next to a glass teacup stained with a series of brown rings. There was a brown-and-yellow tapestry nailed to the wall, a geometric print that echoed the pattern of the carpet. He walked through the back door and into the yard behind the house. He recognized the layout from what Rafi had described to him and from the police report. The outhouse was right where he expected it to be, as was the pear tree. The solitary rosebush sat off to the side, almost as if it were retreating from the home.

Was that where Kamal’s body had been? Yusuf could almost believe that the ground still carried the stain of blood though it was now several weeks and quite a few rains since Kamal’s murder.

“That’s all there is to see.”

Hakimi’s voice startled Yusuf, who had crouched on the ground over where Kamal’s body had been.

“Yes, there is nothing surprising. I just wanted to see with my own eyes.”

“Let’s go then. I don’t need the neighbors thinking the chief of police is giving Zeba’s lawyer extra help.”

“Of course. But I believe she’s innocent and in order for me to defend her, it’s important for me to gather information. You’re a fair person — I can tell.”

“I am,” Hakimi agreed, his hands on his hips. “And that’s why I have this title. It’s a big responsibility, but I take it seriously. Most people in my position don’t and that’s the problem.”

“I’m sure of that,” Yusuf said, nodding. “One question, Hakimi- sahib . What position was the husband’s body in when you found him?”

“He wasn’t moving. He was just dead.”

Hakimi’s tone made his unimpressed opinion of Yusuf quite clear.

“I know he was dead when you found him, but what position was his body in? He was here, correct?”

Hakimi pulled at his chin and squinted.

“He was. . he was on his belly. His head was turned to the side and facing us.”

“Where was the hatchet?”

“Over there,” Hakimi motioned to the back wall of the house, not far from the door Yusuf had just come through.

“And was there any other evidence? Anything else found here or in the house that seemed out of place?”

“It looked just like this. What you see here now is the same thing I saw that day, except for the dead husband, the wife, and the hatchet. You can’t make a simple thing into a complicated one just by asking a lot of questions.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do. I don’t have the benefit of having seen it with my own eyes so I’m asking you. Was there blood inside the house?”

“No,” Hakimi said, though the truth was that he hadn’t checked. What difference would it have made? If Zeba had tracked blood through the house, would that have made her any more or less guilty?

Yusuf sighed.

Forensic science had a long way to go in Afghanistan. Yusuf knew he wouldn’t have the luxury of DNA tests. Fingerprints might have been a possibility, but no one had bothered taking any.

“What’s been going on with the children? I know they’re living with their uncle. Have you heard anything from them?”

“What’s to hear? Poor kids lost their father and their mother, really. At least they had somewhere to go. Not every family would have taken in the children of a killer.”