Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“How very heartbreaking!”

“It is. I cannot sleep. I have no appetite. I can barely do my job. If she leaves, I’m sure I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. Nothing could fill the hole in my heart.”

“Beautifully said, my young friend,” said the host. He whispered something barely off air and cleared his throat. “I hope that if you and this young woman are destined for each other, nothing will stand in the way of your devotion. This is Night of the Hearts on Radio Sabaa. We’re going to take another caller now. .”

Yusuf chuckled softly to himself, thinking of a boy and girl who spent stolen moments talking on mobile phones, shooting each other lustful glances and thinking they knew true love. Then again, who was Yusuf to judge? He had chosen to walk away from Elena and had been more hurt that she had not put up a fight. She’d called him an idiot for wasting her time and moved on — just like that. He thought of the women in Chil Mahtab, the women who dared run off with men even though they were risking their freedom or their lives to do so. What love could possibly be that compelling?

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER?” ZEBA DEMANDED ANGRILY. “Tell me!”

The mullah answered her through tight lips.

“I’ve done nothing to your mother. We spoke about your situation. Zeba- jan, I want you to be safe,” he said in an oddly conspiratorial whisper. “Your lawyer says madness can be used to get you leniency in your case. I. . I think it’s important for you to spend some time here so that there is no question to your madness. I’ve promised your mother that I would watch over you. I’m going to keep that promise.”

“God will never forgive you,” she growled. “You can spend a million years praying and He will still condemn you for whatever it is that you’ve done to my mother.”

She’d spat at his feet with whatever saliva she could muster, sick at the memory of the way he’d put his hands on Gulnaz.

The mullah rubbed at his temples.

“We’re each haunted by our own sins, Zeba, but the ultimate judgment is left to Allah for a reason. With only five senses, we are limited in our ability to understand. Your mother will return today. You can ask her yourself.”

Zeba turned her back to him and didn’t move again until she was certain he’d left.

The other patients knew of her presence now and sometimes called out to her, “the woman.” Zeba did not answer. There were too many ways for this situation to get worse for her. The best she could do was to maintain the solitude she sought. The nights should have been easy respites, but madness seemed to sparkle to its zenith under moonlight.

She was restless and unable to sleep. She needed to know that her mother was all right. She needed to know what the mullah had done to her and already reeled with guilt so poisonous that she almost wished Kamal back to life. That was how desperate she’d become. She did not question her mother’s reasons for not lashing out at the mullah or turning on her heels. She understood now that everything Gulnaz had done, every bizarre behavior or act of madness, was a demonstration of love.

When the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Zeba felt her skin prickle. She sat perfectly still and understood, with the intuition of a woman who had endured much in the past few weeks, that she was moments away from another tectonic shift in her life. She focused on keeping her breathing even and pressed her back flat against the clay wall.

There had been a certain comfort to the shrine, Zeba admitted, before the mullah had shamelessly led her mother into his quarters. The small of her back ached. She pushed her shoulders back and felt the sharp pangs of protest in her muscles.

“GENTLEMEN,” SAID QAZI NAJEEB SLOWLY. “I’VE RECEIVED SOME interesting information related to the case of Khanum Zeba. I think we have to be very cautious with what I’m going to share with you. It could be a very ugly situation and would have been, no doubt, if her husband Kamal were not already dead and buried.”

Yusuf listened carefully. The judge had called this meeting abruptly, and he half expected to hear that Zeba had starved to death at the shrine. Yusuf was already feeling guilt-ridden for not finding her a way out of there.

“I received a call from the police chief, Hakimi, if you remember his name from the arrest report. He’s been approached by several people in the village who report that Kamal had been seen burning a page of the holy Qur’an a few months back. He wasn’t sure exactly when or under what circumstances.”

“Dear God, toba, toba. . ” the prosecutor groaned, shaking his head.

Yusuf bit his bottom lip and his brows lowered. Burning a page of the holy book was an unforgivable transgression. Yusuf couldn’t put blasphemy past Kamal, after everything he’d learned about him. Still, his body tightened with unease.

“I don’t want to have this weigh too heavily into the case, but I’m afraid we can’t ignore it either. It’s got to be considered.”

At that statement, the prosecutor’s ears perked.

“Murder is murder.”

Qazi Najeeb leaned over his desk and peered over the rims of his scratched lenses.

“You know as well as I do that murder is not murder.”

The prosecutor nodded in agreement. It was a truth the three men could agree upon.

“What else did Hakimi say?” Yusuf asked. He wished the police chief would have called him directly so he could ask these questions himself.

“Hakimi has been interviewing half the town, and it seems that lots of people have heard this story. He says it’s hard to imagine how it could not be true with the sheer number of people who nod their heads when he asks if they’ve heard of this.”

Yusuf could imagine it. A rumor started by one person, passed to two others, and then ten more when Hakimi began to ask his questions. Hakimi’s questions, he knew, had likely added fuel to the rumor or truth, whichever it was. He’d seen the same happen in the past. Simply asking about Kamal burning a page of the Qur’an would have made it a possibility. A bit of attention from villagers and the possibility would take root. Soon its roots would spread through the ground, the seed breaking open and through the earth into the light of day.

“It’s a surprising number of people who reported to Hakimi that they had heard the same story from others. One man said he saw Kamal smoking a cigarette in the evening a few months ago and that his hands had been blackened with ash, likely from Kamal wiping away the evidence of his sin. Another man said he heard Kamal saying he had no time or patience for prayers. And, worst of all, quite a few people said they had known Kamal to be a drinking man. He consumed alcohol regularly though no one would say where he might have gotten the drink from.”

Yusuf put a hand over his mouth. He was afraid he would break into a grin, not because he felt good about Zeba’s defense but because it was amazing how much things could change based on a rumor. He kept his eyes on his notebook so they wouldn’t betray him.

“In other news, I heard from a guard that there’s a reporter who is asking questions about this case. It seems this reporter has been to Chil Mahtab inquiring about the women in prison. . you know how these young reporters are. That reporter got wind of Zeba’s case, so I wouldn’t be surprised if either of you receive phone calls about this. I want you to be warned, especially with what we’re now hearing about Kamal and the story of that woman in Kabul who was murdered by the mob. This could get very ugly.”

“People hear this kind of blasphemy and they want blood, but it’s hard to get blood out of a dead man,” the prosecutor mused.