Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

If Walid hadn’t known, why had he turned away so quickly? Why had he pushed his cart back down the street in such a hurry, his eyes glued to the nuts and raisins as if they were the ones that needed saving? God shouldn’t have put him on that street that day. There was no reason for him to be there. He’d barely sold more than a few handfuls of anything there in months. It had been a mistake.

YUSUF WAS WATCHING HIM, PATIENTLY WAITING FOR WALID TO break the silence, a silence that had gone on so long it was obvious he had something to say. The streets were unexpectedly empty, and the sun hung high in the sky, undimmed by the wispy clouds. There wasn’t even the faintest stir of dust.

“I can tell you this. .”

But what could he say? He didn’t need to say which girl it was. He didn’t need to lead Yusuf back to her house to dig up things that shouldn’t see the light of day. The woman. How could he help that woman?

“Kamal, God rest his soul,” Walid said awkwardly, “was not a right man. I knew that. Other people knew that. I’m sure his wife knew it, too.”

Yusuf felt something pull at his stomach. He tried not to appear too excited. He nodded, a small gesture but one that Walid seemed to need in order to continue. Like an exhalation, a breeze drifted through, causing the dust to rise and settle around their ankles. It was there, under the gaze of the round and brilliant sun, that Walid began to unravel the story of Zeba and Kamal.

MEZHGAN, IN A FLURRY OF HUGS AND KISSES AND PROMISES TO reunite beyond the prison’s bars, had been returned to her family. They would have a real wedding in a month, but for now, the judge had been appeased by the formal union between her and her beloved. Before she’d gone, she’d pressed her cheek against Zeba’s and tried to kiss her hands though Zeba had pulled away.

“I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am,” she’d said. “And just to show you how much you mean to me, I want to show you what I’ve done.”

She rolled up the sleeve of her dress and Zeba gasped. On the pale flesh was a fresh tattoo, black writing raised from the skin and haloed in red. It was as clumsy as a child’s scrawl but clear enough to read— Zeba . Zeba couldn’t believe the girl’s foolishness, to sit while another prisoner had pierced her flesh with a pin, dripping melted rubber thinned with shampoo into each divot, to embed the letters of her name into her young body.

“Mezhgan, why?” Zeba had been baffled. “Why would you put that on your arm?”

Plenty of women had tattoos in Chil Mahtab — names of lovers, hearts, and other symbols. But Zeba had never expected to see her own name carved into another person’s flesh.

“I’ve never met a woman as strong as you,” Mezhgan had professed. “There’s something special about you. I knew that from the day they brought you into the cell. You have magic. You’re powerful. Just look what you’ve done for me! And I know that whatever you did to your husband, you did with God on your side. Every woman in here agrees with me. Every single one.”

ZEBA WATCHED HER TWO REMAINING ROOMMATES SITTING cross-legged on the floor of their cell. It was morning and an odd time for a game of cards, but Mezhgan’s absence left a void none of them had anticipated and there were few ways to fill emptiness in prison. Latifa had borrowed a deck of cards from a woman whose cell was on the second floor. She’d been jailed for leaving the husband who had stabbed her in the belly. Her neighbor, a girl she’d known for a few years, had been jailed as well for helping her to escape.

“There’s absolutely no way I’m letting you deal the cards again,” Nafisa declared with exasperation.

Latifa’s eyebrows shot up jovially. The cell was stifling and hot.

“Accusing me of cheating? Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to cheat to beat you at this game. You’re even worse than Mezhgan was.”

Nafisa held her fan of cards over her heart and looked wistfully at Mezhgan’s vacant bed.

“I am so happy for her,” she said. “She’s going to be married soon to her sweetheart. I do miss her, though.”

Latifa threw a queen of hearts onto Nafisa’s nine of hearts.

“Killed that one, too,” she said smugly before slapping a jack of diamonds in front of her frustrated cellmate. “Don’t bother missing her. I doubt she’s wasted a second thinking about us.”

“What a spiteful thing to say!” Nafisa snapped.

“But it’s true! What would you do if you were released today? I’ll tell you what you would do,” Latifa said with the conviction of a politician. “You would turn your back on this place and everyone in it. You would never let the name Chil Mahtab cross your lips again. You would deny you’d ever been here, just as you deny what got you sent here in the first place.”

“I would not!” Nafisa huffed, with equal conviction. “I would never turn my back on you, Latifa. And if you were a nice person, I would write to you and visit you, maybe even bring you chocolates from my shirnee whenever that happens. I wouldn’t want to forget you, even if you do cheat like a thief.”

Latifa scoffed and shifted her hips on the ground. She kept her eyes on her cards, but her face had softened.

This early game of cards was not as relaxing as Latifa had promised it would be — not when there was still a prison full of women looking to Zeba for help she couldn’t provide. If she were all that powerful, she should have been able to do some good for herself. The women of Chil Mahtab were not bothered by that small point, though. Their need to believe in Zeba loomed so large that it eclipsed all skepticism. Zeba thought, again, of her name carved on Mezhgan’s young forearm like a blood tribute.

When Asma, the guard, came rapping at their door, Zeba was not at all disappointed.

“Zeba, come. Your lawyer’s here to meet with you.”

Zeba wasn’t expecting Yusuf back so soon, less than a week since he’d last been to see her. Each time they met, he left appearing frustrated but determined. She did not know what he did in the intervals between their visits and wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask.

“My lawyer? Are you sure?”

Asma laughed.

“Get up, Zeba. No reason to keep the handsome gentleman waiting.”

YUSUF WAS PACING THE ROOM WHEN ZEBA ENTERED. HIS BAG hung from the back of the chair, and there was his yellow notepad with his indecipherable scribbling. The top page looked softly crinkled and Zeba would have bet anything at that moment that Yusuf had fallen asleep with his face pressed to it.

He looked at her, grim-faced.

“We’ve got to talk, Khanum Zeba. We’ve got to talk.”

Zeba slid into the chair across from Yusuf’s bag. Asma lingered at the door until Yusuf sharply thanked her for bringing Zeba in for the meeting.

Asma’s ears perked at the tone of his voice, but she closed the door behind her and took a few steps down the hall. Zeba watched her walk away from the glass-enclosed interview room and turned her attention back to Yusuf. He had shadows under his eyes.

“What’s going on? Has something happened?”

Yusuf shot her a look of annoyance.

“I’ve asked only that you be open with me. I told you from the beginning that if you let me in, if you shared everything with me, I might be able to help you. You could have saved us both a lot of trouble if you would’ve just trusted me from the beginning. That’s the only way this”—he waved a finger back and forth between him and Zeba—“can work.”

“Say what you want to say.”

Yusuf stopped short. Zeba breathed a little easier. His pacing always made her nervous. Yusuf pulled the chair back quickly, its legs scraping against the floor tiles. His bag slipped off the back, but he didn’t bother to pick it up.