Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

Yusuf bit his tongue.

“Mullah- sahib, ” the prosecutor said politely. “I’m very glad to have seen the shrine and hear about your work. The judge spoke highly of your skills and we are eager to hear your assessment of this woman. What do you need to do to evaluate her?”

“Yes, the woman.” The mullah turned his attention to Zeba, who looked up at the circle of men standing a few feet away. “Let me speak with her. Let us go inside, and my son will serve you a cup of tea to revive your spirits.”

Yusuf stole one last glance at the cells beyond the fence, wondering if he could spy one of the patients the mullah was treating, but there was not even a shadow of movement. The mullah could be blowing smoke, he thought. There might not be a single soul in those cells.

They went into the building where a burgundy carpet with an elephant foot motif lay on the floor. There were two floor cushions with wool-covered pillows resting against the wall.

The prosecutor took a seat on the cushions and a boy, no more than ten years old, came in from a back room with a silver tray holding four small cups of tea. He placed a cup before each of the lawyers and took the other two to the plastic table and chairs outside where Mullah Habibullah sat facing Zeba. The prison guard stood a few feet away, talking quietly on his mobile phone.

“What do you think of this place?” the mullah asked.

Zeba refused to meet his gaze. She stared at the branches of the acacia tree. The mullah’s eyebrows lifted with interest.

“What crime have you been arrested for?” The mullah’s eyes were soft and reassuring.

Zeba’s voice was raspy. The dusty air had dried her throat, but she refused to take even a sip of the steamy amber tea.

“What do you want from me?”

Mullah Habibullah was taken aback by her acidic tone. Not even the most insane patient had been so insolent.

“Why do you ask?”

Zeba looked away, as if she’d already lost interest in her own question.

“Why are you in jail?” the mullah repeated.

“He must have told you.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Zeba smirked.

“Because God intended for me to go to prison and I am His disciple. Because some men can talk from both corners of their mouths at the same time. Because my lawyer thinks he is going to save my life when my mother and grandfather, with all the tricks they have between them, could not do a thing for me.”

The mullah’s eyes narrowed.

“Your mother and your grandfather?”

He leaned in closer, staring so hard that Zeba turned in her chair and kept her shoulder toward him. She lowered her eyes.

“Who is your grandfather?”

“My grandfather, Safatullah, is a murshid . He’s not known here. This is too far from our village.”

The mullah nodded slowly.

“I see,” he whispered. He stood and wandered a few steps away. His back was to Zeba as he stared at the spreading branches of the acacia tree.

“They say you killed your husband. Did you?”

Zeba laughed.

“Everyone wants to talk about my dead husband — except me.”

“Was he a bad man?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about him. Listen, Mullah- sahib, I’m not crazy. There’s no reason for me to be here. If they think I should be in prison, then send me back there, please.”

The mullah cleared his throat before turning again to face Zeba.

“You must know what happened to your husband. Have you told your family anything? Your. . your mother or your grandfather?”

“There’s nothing for me to say. They have their police reports.”

“I heard as much,” he said, returning to his chair. He pulled it a few inches closer to Zeba before settling in. Zeba tried not to recoil too visibly at his closeness. Yusuf and the prosecutor were just inside, she reminded herself.

“What has your family said about this? Do they believe in your innocence?”

“My mother. .” Zeba began. She was surprised to hear her voice quaver with emotion at the mention of her mother. “She has always believed in my innocence. There is no mother like her. My brother found me a lawyer. They are my family. I have no one else.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Whether he believes in my innocence or not doesn’t matter. He can do nothing for me.”

“Is that hatred in your voice?”

“For my grandfather?” Zeba was taken aback at the mullah’s comment.

“No, not your grandfather. Your husband,” he said pensively. “The wrong spouse can make a person crazy. Or can at least make a person do crazy things.”

“I told you,” Zeba said through gritted teeth. “I’m not crazy.”

Crazy was a river. It swept some away, drowning them even as they clawed for a rocky hold. If she let herself think too long on what had happened to Kamal or what Kamal had done or what had become of her children or what might have already happened to her children, Zeba felt the unmistakable rush of water between her toes, then lapping at her calves, cold and threatening.

Zeba fought it off.

“Like an emerald ring,” she muttered.

“What did you say?” Mullah Habibullah asked.

“Do you know that if you feed an emerald to a chicken, it will pass through its belly and come out the other side without a mark — once you wipe the shit away, of course. All you have to do is be patient and trust the entrails of the chicken to return the truth to you. Then you know it’s really emerald.”

The mullah frowned to hear her curse.

“Are you suggesting I pass you through the bowels of a chicken? Would you come out unblemished?”

The thought of being squeezed through the guts of a hen made Zeba’s lips curl with amusement. She drew her head scarf across her face to hide her mouth. This was how she kept the floodwaters at bay. She found reasons to smile, even as she sat a few meters away from what looked like a row of crypts.

The mullah noticed the crinkling at the corners of her eyes. He peered at her with curiosity.

“You can’t tell by looking at me? You really don’t know?” Zeba jeered as she thrust her chair back. “Mullah- sahib, I’ve already slithered through the bowels of a beast. There’s no reason to test me anymore.”

The mullah picked up the thermos his son had left on the table and refilled his cup. A swirl of black leaves slipped out, a thousand unfurled flags. The leaves had yet to settle when the sound of a rattling chain made Zeba turn her head away from the hills and toward the desiccated honeycomb. The mullah followed her gaze, then traced his path back to her face and the shadows below her eyes. Her face was the shape of an owl’s, with round, inky eyes and a prominent widow’s peak. Her olive skin was smooth, but the last few weeks had sapped any natural flush from her cheeks.

There was a shout, a man’s voice. Zeba couldn’t quite make it out at first. She strained her eyes and spotted a flutter at the mouth of the cavelike cell, so subtle that she wondered if she had imagined it. The voice came again, a loud, slow moan.

“God, oh God, what have I done to deserve this? Help me! Someone please help me!”

Another voice followed — it, too, dragged to the mouth of the cave by a chain.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up! God doesn’t love you!”

But he wouldn’t shut up, whoever the man was. He sat just at the brink of his cell, close enough that daylight fell upon a sliver of his body. Zeba could make out the curved shape of a defeated spine, one gaunt arm, and a cowed head.

“I don’t want to be alone! Please don’t leave me alone any longer! I swear to you I’ve been cured! Please let me out. . I’m going to die here!” It was human but reminded Zeba of the bleating of a sheep being dragged to slaughter, its front legs dragging in the dirt and an instinctive dread vibrating in its soon-to-be-sliced throat.