Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“He was.”

“What do you think was going on between Zeba and her husband?”

“Hmph.” The woman folded her thin arms across her chest. “You know, God made turtles with a hard shell. They’re born expecting to need that shell. Women are not born that way. A husband like Kamal can destroy them. He was a beast. Lately, I didn’t see her as much, and when I did see her, she was scurrying back home, afraid she’d been gone too long. She was nervous a lot. And her husband. .”

But before Yusuf could ask his next question, a voice boomed from inside the house.

“Madar, who are you talking to?”

Her son entered the courtyard and looked at Yusuf with suspicion. Yusuf stuck out his hand, hoping to defuse the situation before he lost this opportunity.

“ Salaam, brother. My name is Yusuf and I was just speaking with your dear mother—”

In a moment, Yusuf was back on the street, listening to the son admonish his mother for letting in a foreign spy.

With heavy feet, Yusuf headed down the street. He couldn’t bring himself to knock on any more doors — not for now. No, Yusuf was done for the day. He walked past the school Zeba’s daughters attended and opted not to stop the man pushing a wagon of fresh fruits and plump, enticing raisins.

THE NEXT DAY, YUSUF STEPPED INTO THE VILLAGE MAIN STREET. The acrid smell of diesel mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was the clink of soft drink bottles in a crate as a man in a gray tunic and pantaloons set up his kiosk.

The young lawyer breathed it in, dust and all. It was the smell of opportunity, rebirth, and hope. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, imagined walking through streets just like this one and struggling to practice law here the way thrill-seeking doctors travel to field hospitals in Africa to test their skills.

It was stripping the profession down to its core. It was all guts. It was all glory.

He’d imagined drafting arguments and constructing defenses and finding ways to make the well-intentioned Afghan penal code live up to its potential. He would plow through the weeds of injustice and corruption and let righteousness see the light of day.

His time in Afghanistan had been nothing like what he’d imagined. He tried not to dwell on it. These were the obstacles that would make it all worthwhile in the end. These were the challenges that made him want to come to Afghanistan in the first place. If it had been easy, someone else could have done it. The lawyers here could have managed.

It wasn’t easy. That’s why Zeba needed him. That’s why this place called out to him.

Yusuf wanted to make a name for himself and he wanted to do that in Afghanistan. Was that vanity? No, he promised himself. Vanity was wanting a tailored pin-striped suit or a corner office in a skyscraper.

This was honor and legacy. This would give his mother something to boast about to her friends. This is what would save him from looking as disappointed as his father at the way life had turned out.

Still, Yusuf had to admit that this visit to the village was not as productive as he’d hoped. He’d confirmed that the police hadn’t gathered any evidence, something he could use in his defense argument though he could already imagine the qazi shaking his head.

The police didn’t have the time or resources to gather evidence, Aneesa had told him as he’d pored over the arrest registry for Zeba. As long as the officers had obtained a statement from the arrested person, there really was no need to waste time with evidence that probably didn’t exist or couldn’t be scientifically interpreted.

Zeba’s prosecutor had probably heard by now that Yusuf had gone to the village to poke around. He was doubtless entertained by Yusuf’s naïve efforts. The prosecution could write his case up on toilet paper and unfurl it in the qazi ’s office — it would still be stronger than Yusuf’s defense.

Two men passed Yusuf walking in the opposite direction. One, who had a white beard and a triangular karakul hat, reminded Yusuf of his grandfather. The other had a stubbly chin and walked with his two hands knotted behind him. Their unhurried pace gave them ample opportunity to take in Yusuf’s incongruous appearance.

“ Salaam-ulaikum, ” Yusuf said with a nod.

They returned his greeting and continued to look at him unabashedly.

Yusuf wanted to return to Zeba’s neighborhood today. If he could just find a person who had actually been in their home that day when they’d all descended upon the murder scene, he might have a chance of learning something. There had to be information he could use.

Yusuf was lost in thought and barely noticed the rickety sound of uneven wheels approaching. It was the woody scent of fresh almonds that caught his attention and caused him to stop short. A three-wheeled cart had rolled up close enough to tempt him with its stock.

“Agha, wait. Let me see what you have,” he called out.

The man stopped his cart but kept his hands wrapped around the two handles, his elbows bent and tucked close to his sides. He wore a round wool hat that did little to block the sun from his face. It was only late morning, but his forehead already glistened with a light sheen of sweat.

Yusuf took a few steps toward the cart, leaning over it to inspect the stock in each of the tall, thick plastic bags that made up the load. Dried chickpeas, long green raisins, almonds, and walnuts.

“ Salaam-ulaikum. ” Yusuf felt the man’s eyes on him.

“ Wa-alaikum, ” the man replied. There was a pause before he spoke again. “These raisins are so sweet, you’ll think they’ve been sugared. You’ve not had anything like them, I promise you.”

“Very well.” Yusuf nodded. “I’ll take them and some of the almonds as well.”

The vendor flipped open a paper bag and scooped almonds into it. His tawny hands and face had been weathered by many days under the unforgiving sun. It was hard to judge his age. He looked to be in his midforties, but Yusuf had come to realize that everyone in Afghanistan looked ten to twenty years older than they actually were, and few could expect to live past sixty-five. It was as if life was in fast-forward, though it did not seem to give anyone a sense of urgency to do more in the abbreviated time he or she had. The vendor grabbed a second bag and was about to flip it open when he paused.

“Where are you from?” he asked curiously.

“I’m visiting from town,” Yusuf said, hoping to skirt the question. He could tell people where in Afghanistan he’d been born, but he knew that wasn’t what they were asking.

“What have you come here for?” The man squinted as he looked at Yusuf, whose back was to the sun. He was also a good six inches taller than the fruit vendor.

“I’ve come to ask some questions,” Yusuf said, being unnecessarily careful with his words. “I’m sure you know that a man was found dead in his home not too long ago.”

“Mm.”

“I’m trying to find out what might have happened to him. People say his wife killed him, but no one saw it happen.”

The man scratched his beard.

“They call me Walid.”

“Good to meet you, Walid- jan, ” Yusuf replied. Walid was not much older than himself, he realized with a closer look. “My name is Yusuf.”

Yusuf stuck out his hand. Walid met it with his, calloused and gritty.

“You’re not a police officer,” Walid remarked. “Why are you asking questions?”

“No, I’m not a police officer. But I want to be sure we find the truth so that justice can be done.”

“The government sent you?”

“Not really. An organization. We work for justice.”