Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“I went to your village,” he said, looking straight at her.

Zeba felt a knot in her stomach. She waited.

“I went to your town and I went to your house. I knocked on your neighbors’ doors. There’s a lovely woman down the street from you who’s watched you walk past her house while she tends to her plants.”

Zeba knew precisely who Yusuf had spoken to. On two occasions, Zeba had herded her children out of the house rather abruptly. Those were days when Kamal had come home with red-rimmed eyes and heavy feet. He’d been violent but in a directionless way that made Zeba frightened for the children. The drink gave Kamal bursts of energy followed by bouts of exhaustion. Knowing he would not bother to chase after them, she’d thrown a head scarf on and scurried past that woman’s house, tears streaming down her face as she anxiously looked over her shoulder. She’d seen the woman looking out into the street as if she’d been waiting for just such a curious sight to come by.

“There’s more,” Yusuf said. “I talked to a man who was outside your house the day Kamal was killed. He was just outside your door that afternoon. He says he knows what happened.”

A man. Zeba thought back to that day. What could a man have seen or heard from outside their walls? He couldn’t have seen the hatchet go into Kamal’s head.

“What man? Is he saying I killed Kamal?” Zeba was on the brink of rage, a sudden boiling anger at the thought that a man would step forward to further condemn her. “I don’t know who he is, but he’s a liar!”

“The man saw something. He saw someone go into your home, Khanum Zeba.”

Zeba remained in her seat, her lips pressed together into a thin, pink line. Had a man really seen her? Had he told anyone else? All the days she’d spent away from her children and all the days ahead that she would fester here without them — all this could not be for nothing. She could not let Yusuf or this man, whoever he was, render her sacrifice meaningless.

By the severe look on Zeba’s face, Yusuf felt any doubt he’d harbored in Walid’s story melt away.

“I don’t really feel like talking now,” Zeba said with quiet resolve. She crossed her legs at the ankle and kept her fingers tightly intertwined, an effort to prevent any part of her body from revealing more than had already been revealed. If only Yusuf could understand how badly she wanted to tell him. But it seemed the truth would be of little benefit — not to people who deemed her testimony worth only a fraction of a man’s. In a flicker of despondency, the lines came to her:

“What good is a woman’s telling of truth

When nothing she says will be taken as proof?”

Yusuf looked at her quizzically.

“Where did you hear that?”

“The words are mine,” she said, emboldened. “But every woman knows them.”

She was right, he admitted to himself. A woman’s word held little value here. Women themselves seemed to hold little value here. But Yusuf couldn’t stop now. He would press her because he wanted to get to the heart of the story. This would be the moment that redefined the case. Zeba would break down and be completely honest with him and he would put together a magnificent defense, the likes of which had never been seen in this town, maybe in this country.

“Listen, this is a whole new case now. I’ve got—”

Zeba’s head lifted suddenly. Urgently.

“Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“My son, Basir. Did you see him?” She was leaning across the table, her palms pressing onto its wooden surface.

“No, I didn’t see him. Did you hear what I said?”

“Did you hear anything about him? Are they all right? Did anyone tell you about him and the girls? You said you talked to people. People must know how they’re doing.”

Yusuf took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. She was entitled to inquire about her children, even if that meant diverting his questions.

“I’m sorry, but I think Kamal’s family is keeping them at home. I didn’t get much information from anyone, but no one said anything worrisome either. I’m sure they’re as well as they possibly could be given the circumstances.”

“Yes, they’re probably fine,” she mumbled.

“Khanum Zeba, it’s really important for us to focus on you now,” he said gently. “I think there’s a way to defend you.”

It occurred to Zeba that just a few moments ago she had been watching a stupid card game. How could she have gone from that moment to this one without much warning?

“I know about the girl.”

Zeba stared at the table until the grain of the wood blurred. She leaped ahead, skipping his questions and arriving at the inevitable conclusion.

“Even if I am released from here, I won’t get my children back. If I cannot have my children, there is no reason for me to leave this place.”

Yusuf leaned back in his chair. She was right. The odds of Kamal’s family returning the children to their mother if she were released were slim. Yusuf spoke again.

“Khanum, I said I know about the girl.”

The girl. All this because of a little girl who had been stupid enough to get within reach of Kamal. Zeba didn’t know how he’d lured her into their yard but he had. The poor thing had been so frightened. Zeba could still see her eyes, wild and round with shame. She had looked so much like her own daughters. It could have been Shabnam or Kareema. Feeling took so much less time and energy than thinking. Zeba hadn’t paused to ask questions. She’d seen everything she needed to on the girl’s face, the desperate way she clutched her pants in her hand.

And Kamal. Kamal had stood before her, his back to the afternoon sun. He’d been nothing but a silhouette, the dark shape of a man she hardly recognized. He’d dusted his shirt off. He’d been flustered, nothing more. He’d started mumbling something, but Zeba couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears, loud enough to drown out any reasons he might have offered for her to ignore the gruesome scene she’d just stumbled upon.

Kamal wanted her to be something she wasn’t. He wanted her to be the woman who would look away forever.

But she’d seen everything. And Rima was only a few meters away. How could she explain this to the girls? She would never explain it to them. It would be buried with her.

So much had been decided in the space of seconds, in a span of time too short to accommodate thoughts but with only enough room for reflexes.

When had she picked up the hatchet? Zeba closed her eyes. She couldn’t say for certain. She didn’t even remember seeing it leaning against the side of the house. Kamal must have left it there, though Zeba couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him hold it. How often had she asked him to put it away so that the children wouldn’t hurt themselves with it?

Yusuf watched his client withdraw. He let her be, hoping that her thoughts would lead her to a place of use to him.

“The girl, Khanum. She was the reason for all this.”

Was he asking her or seeking confirmation?

She was too young to be so damaged. Had she been the first one? It was too late to ask Kamal. Was that the first time he’d hurt that girl? By the look on her face, Zeba would guess so.

“There was no girl,” Zeba said flatly.

“There was no girl?”

“There was no girl,” Zeba said, each word steeped in resolve.

Yusuf sat directly across from her. Their eyes met, each daring the other to back down.

“But there was, and that girl changes everything.”

“Did you talk with anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you talk with anyone else in my village?”

Yusuf tapped a finger on the table, the ticking of a metronome.