Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“Let me be even clearer. You, Khanum Zeba, have been found guilty of murdering your husband. It is a deplorable crime against Islam and a crime against the laws of our country. There can be no excuse for it. We will meet again in three days and I’ll announce your sentence.”

AFTER HEARING THE GUILTY VERDICT, YUSUF HAD SLOGGED home. He had planned to go directly to his apartment but decided, halfway down the road to his house, that he would stop at the gym first. He needed to do something physical.

He’d joined during his first week in the city. Inside were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bright recessed lights, and the familiar hum of treadmills. Weight machines were scattered throughout the room as were dumbbells. There were men of all different sizes, some in Adidas tracksuits and others in faded T-shirts with sleeves cut off at the shoulder. One man in a short-sleeved T-shirt pulled outward the two ends of an elastic resistance band. A thick vein ran down the center of each bicep like the crease on a pair of pants. The place smelled of rubber, sweat, and metal.

The treadmill kept Yusuf sane. There was something soothing about the rhythm of his sneakers hitting the belt as it spun around the conveyor. It gave him a place to think when his apartment was too quiet and the office was too empty.

Inevitably, his thoughts returned to Zeba and the mullah. He had to know if Habibullah truly was her father, though he was still unsure whether or not it would make a difference. Shortly after Zeba had returned to Chil Mahtab, he’d called her to ask about it.

What kind of question is that? she had replied. It was neither confirmation nor denial.

Yusuf, with beads of sweat trickling down his back, decided to find out from Mullah Habibullah himself. If it were true, there might be more to chat about.

THUS, IN THE MORNING, YUSUF TRAVELED BACK TO THE SHRINE and knocked on the mullah’s door. The mullah’s son answered, looking back into the living room with raised eyebrows.

“Padar! It’s the lawyer!”

Yusuf peered into the sitting area and saw the mullah sitting on a floor cushion, the same exact spot he’d been sitting in during their last conversation. He had his back against the wall and his legs crossed. He wore a white crocheted prayer cap on his head and a black vest over his brown tunic and pantaloons. He glanced at his watch as if he’d been expecting Yusuf at this particular moment.

“ Salaam, Mullah- sahib, ” Yusuf said with a hand on his chest.

“ Wa-alaikum. Welcome, young man.”

“Could we speak for a few minutes? I have an important matter to discuss with you. It has to do with Khanum Zeba, of course.”

The mullah motioned him to come in. Yusuf took two steps into the room. As he moved past the wooden door, he saw that the mullah was not alone. Across from him sat Gulnaz, her back straight as a hairpin. Her legs were tucked under her and hidden beneath a navy blue shawl with red embroidery. She looked from Yusuf back to the shawl spread across her lap, a deep sigh escaping her lips.

“ Salaam wa-alaikum, ” Yusuf said to Gulnaz, bowing his head. She nodded. “I did not expect to see you here.”

The mullah’s son returned from the back room with another empty teacup.

“Have a seat,” the mullah said. Yusuf sat on the same floor cushion as the mullah, leaving a generous gap between them. The mullah’s son placed the teacup on the carpet before him. He brought over the teapot and filled it sloppily, his carelessness disappearing into the worn carpet. The boy then disappeared too, slipping into the next room and out an unseen back door.

Gulnaz had her eyes fixed on the mullah.

“I’ve interrupted your conversation,” Yusuf declared, feeling quite certain that he was sitting with both of Zeba’s parents. Though Yusuf had never been married, he’d felt the same tension when he’d visited an aunt and uncle who had stayed married only to avoid the embarrassment of divorce. He’d felt it on the phone in his last conversation with Elena. It was a special brand of anger, a brooding, an ire that existed only where there had once been love. Yusuf cleared his throat. “I came here to ask a question about something Zeba said the other day but. . well, I think my question’s been answered.”

Neither the mullah nor Gulnaz said a word.

“I don’t need to get into your family affairs or history. My concern is regarding the judge’s verdict. I am sorry to report that the judge has found your daughter guilty. But I’m not ready to give up on her.”

Gulnaz’s hands flew to her forehead.

“Guilty.” She sighed, her voice as thin and delicate as the red threads of her shawl. “Of course.”

“As I said, I’m not going to give up on her case.”

A small shift of the clouds brought a wash of sunlight into the room. Dust motes floated in the shaft of brightness that fell on Yusuf’s feet.

“You,” the mullah said, his voice spiny with resentment. “How is that you couldn’t find anything to grind up or set on fire to save your daughter? I suppose you only have tricks for an evil sister-in-law or the woman who looks at you sideways.”

Gulnaz’s splayed fingers pressed into her lap. She lifted her head and turned her narrowed eyes to her husband.

“What a thing for you to say! You, the great holy man of the shrine, you pious wretch! You with all your prayers tied to the fences and unsaved mad men — how much have you done for your daughter?”

“What a fork-tongued witch you are,” he muttered.

“I’m the woman who raised your children and put up with your family after you left! If that makes me a fork-tongued witch, so be it. But imagine what a dog you must be — the man who didn’t care to watch his children grow. You left us with nothing when rockets and bombs fell around us like rain.”

“I left you in the folds of a respected family.”

“You took me from the folds of a revered family.”

“Revered,” the mullah scoffed. “You told me yourself the tricks you helped your father play to make believers out of your poor neighbors.”

“You ungrateful bastard. If you think so little of my father, why are you so desperate to be like him? He was respected because he helped people. Unlike you, he did it in a civilized manner. He never shackled anyone or starved them.”

“What I do works. Talk to the families of the people I’ve helped heal. They’ll tell you. Or don’t. I don’t need to prove myself to you.”

“No, you don’t. You already have proven to me just what you are,” Gulnaz spat. She turned her head to the door, refusing to look at the man who’d walked out of their home a lifetime ago.

Yusuf considered leaving. They would likely not notice his departure. He couldn’t waste valuable time listening to them rehash the past. Zeba was going to be sentenced in two days, and Qazi Najeeb’s desire to follow the letter of the penal code meant he would hang Yusuf’s client without blinking an eye.

“It’s not my place to intrude,” Yusuf began cautiously. He was acutely aware of the difference in years between himself and Zeba’s parents. They were old enough to be his grandparents, old enough to be treated with deference even if they were acting like fools. But social etiquette had been cast aside when Gulnaz and the mullah had aired their history before Yusuf. “But rehashing history will not help your daughter. Her outlook is bleak. I have a few ideas, but I’ll need your help — both of you.”

The mullah slurped his tea and Gulnaz scowled, giving Yusuf a snapshot of their past.

“I would do anything to help Zeba. I told her that before she left here,” Habibullah declared, swirling the unfurled tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.