Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

YUSUF HAD JUST GOTTEN OFF THE PHONE WITH RAFI, ZEBA’S brother. He was pleased to hear that his sister would be returned to Chil Mahtab after spending nearly three weeks at the mullah’s. He’d wanted to visit her there, Rafi swore to Yusuf, but couldn’t leave his wife when their fourth child was due to arrive at any moment. Yusuf could hear the guilt in his voice but wasn’t sure if it was his place to reassure Rafi. Every man had his choices to make.

He was sitting in the interview room at Chil Mahtab waiting for Asma, the guard who would be accompanying him to the shrine to bring back Zeba. He was toying with his cell phone when he saw Latifa standing idly in the hallway. He recognized Zeba’s cellmate and, seeing that she was staring directly at him, greeted her with a slight nod. At the acknowledgment, she opened the door and poked her head inside.

“You’re Zeba’s lawyer,” she blurted.

“I am,” he said cautiously. “Did you need something?”

“When is she coming back? We know they took her to some shrine for crazies, which is stupid. Do you know why that was stupid?” Latifa did not wait for Yusuf to answer. “Because she’s not crazy. She’s powerful and we need her back here. When is she coming back?”

“Soon,” Yusuf said, hesitant to get into the details. “The judge has approved her return.”

“The judge has!” Latifa grew angry, something red and hot rising in her, the kind of swelling that had created the dent in the door of their cell. “Well, I suppose you think that’s good news, but that only means he’s done playing around. Two other women were charged with murder and sentenced to decades. It’s just a matter of time before he sentences one to death.”

“Have faith. Things could change,” Yusuf said carefully.

“As long as men are the judges, nothing will change.”

Yusuf suddenly felt a bit defensive on behalf of all men.

“There was a woman nominated to serve on the Supreme Court last week. Things may change.”

“Did you not hear the rest?” Latifa shot back. “She was rejected because she dares bleed once a month.”

Yusuf had heard that news, actually. A Supreme Court justice would have to touch the Qur’an every day, one parliamentarian had argued. How could a woman be a judge when she could not touch the Qur’an one whole week out of the month? The reasoning had made Yusuf groan. Aneesa had hurled a book across the office when she’d read about it online. She was still ranting when Yusuf slipped away to get to Chil Mahtab.

“Actually,” Yusuf said, putting his phone down on the table and turning his full attention to Latifa. “I’m going today to bring her back. But what makes you say that she’s powerful? I’m curious.”

Latifa’s hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She reached both hands back, parted the swath in two, and tugged to tighten it. Yusuf, who had spent his life sharing a room with two sisters, felt a twinge of homesickness at the familiar gesture.

“You don’t know what she’s done for the women here,” Latifa said, her eyebrows raised for emphasis. “The problems that keep women up at night — she’s made them go away. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s like her mother or maybe even better. I didn’t believe it at first. I don’t buy into that jadu stuff usually, but this is the first time I’ve seen it myself. Are you really going to bring her back today?”

“That’s the plan.” Yusuf was still considering Latifa’s revelations. Had the prisoners ranked the black magic of the two women? “But what do you mean better than her mother?”

“Better than her mother the jadugar, ” Latifa said, drawing the words out. Believing that she knew something Zeba’s lawyer did not know, she gained confidence and stepped into the interview room. “You know her mother’s a jadugar, right? Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

Yusuf chuckled lightly. Zeba and her mother had made quite an impression on the prisoners, it seemed. He feigned mild surprise.

“I’m here to deal with other issues,” he said lightly.

“Oh, you’re wrong to laugh this off, mister,” Latifa chided, her hands resting on her wide hips. It was at this moment that Yusuf realized she was wearing a butter-yellow Pinocchio T-shirt. While Latifa wondered if he was gawking at her heavy chest, Yusuf noted the elongated wooden nose, faded to a splintered memory. This cartoon fibber, a gentle warning to children not to lie, struck him as particularly odd plastered across a prisoner’s body. “The worst thing you can do is doubt a jadugar . You tell Zeba that the women of Chil Mahtab are waiting for Malika Zeba.”

“Malika Zeba?” Yusuf repeated, scratching at his head. “You’ve named her a queen?”

“Just tell her,” Latifa whispered, shaking her head with a sly smile. “The women will be on fire to hear she’s coming back.”

Asma walked in just as Latifa was turning to leave. Asma’s red hair curled around her forehead, moist with beads of sweat. She straightened her jacket and shot Latifa an expectant look, but Latifa had already backed her way out of the interview room with a bowed head.

“Godspeed to you both! May your trip be quick and successful,” she shouted as she made her way down the hall, her hands cupped around her mouth. Her words echoed against the alphabet-covered walls. “Ladies, good news! They’re bringing back the queen of Chil Mahtab!”

Asma looked at Yusuf expectantly. She did not seem the least bit surprised by Latifa’s booming announcement.

“Ready?” she asked with a quick nod toward the door.

THE SOUNDS OF THE PRISON CAR’S ENGINE DID NOT INSPIRE confidence, nor did the lack of air-conditioning. The fan purred but blew only hot air into the car. Yusuf sat with his head nearly out the passenger-side window to catch the dusty breeze. He kept his eyes shut. He was down to his last bottle of eyedrops and was unconvinced he would find anything decent in the local pharmacies. The midnight blue upholstery was heavy with the smell of old tobacco and scarred with tears and holes. The driver, a male prison guard, drove with two hands on the wheel, his fingers drumming as he hummed to himself. Asma and another guard sat in the backseat.

Yusuf was not sure what to expect. Qazi Najeeb had called his friend, the mullah, to let him know that they were going to be bringing Zeba back. The mullah hadn’t made much of an argument, apparently, which surprised Yusuf. When the driver pulled up on the parking brake in front of the mullah’s quarters, Yusuf saw a curtain pull back slightly. By the height, he could tell it was the mullah’s son. He stepped out of the car and shook his legs, feeling the sweat on the backs of his thighs. It had been wise to wear black slacks today.

The mullah did not emerge until they were all out of the car. The wooden door opened slowly, and he stepped out calmly to meet them. The guards were the first to speak, the male guard putting a hand over his heart in respect. The mullah nodded and looked to Yusuf.

“Quite a caravan to accompany one woman. I did not expect so many of you,” he said without smiling.

Yusuf shielded his eyes from the sun.

“The warden thought it necessary.”

The mullah nodded.

“How has she been?” Yusuf asked. He looked over to the row of cells in the distance. Two men sat cross-legged in the open space, under the dappled shade of a tree thirsty for rain. There was no sign of Zeba, which should not have made Yusuf uneasy but it did. He’d hoped to find her sitting in the plastic chair outside the mullah’s door, just as he’d left her.

“She’s been well,” Mullah Habibullah replied. “She has a strong spirit, but you knew that already, I’m sure.”