Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

It was the greatest injustice, and it made Sultana’s blood boil.

“She has four children. Zeba is all they have. If they lose her, they lose everything.”

“Are you certain about this story?” Sultana asked. She didn’t doubt it though. There was no reason to.

“I’m certain,” he said, nodding. “The way she talked about it. . it’s the truth. That’s the reason why I said what I did to you. She’s going to be sentenced tomorrow, and the judge has made it pretty clear that he wants to honor the law. I think he wants to see her hanged.”

Sultana crossed her legs and tapped a finger on her chin.

“What can be done? Even if I go to the judge with rumors about her husband, what good will that do?”

“It’s a long shot, but it’s all I have. I’ve tried everything else.” And he had, even using the mullah and Gulnaz to sway the judge toward mercy. It was a tragic shift, he realized, that he was now simply asking for mercy instead of justice or freedom.

“And you’re thinking that if I tell the judge I’m going to run a story about the dead husband, that I’m going to write about the accusations made against him about Qur’an burning, that he’ll feel pressured not to hang the woman who killed him?”

“I think it’s a possibility. . based on what I’ve seen of this judge.”

“I just don’t know.” Sultana pursed her lips and considered Yusuf carefully.

The other attorney was off the phone now and looking in their direction. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Yusuf who his visitor was. Yusuf raised a hand and looked back at his desk. He was in no mood to explain.

“Village rumors. I’ve never wanted to have anything to do with them. They’ll be the death of all of us, I swear,” Sultana whispered.

Yusuf ran his fingers through his hair. He had every reason to anticipate defeat in this case. The odds had been against him from the beginning. A dead husband, a reticent wife, no witnesses or possible suspects. She should have been hung long ago.

Sultana stood up abruptly, smoothing her jacket over the seat of her pants. She reached for her handbag.

“You’re leaving?” Yusuf said. He didn’t want her to go. If nothing else, he wanted her to stay and tell him that he’d done everything he could have done. She was the only other person who knew the truth.

“I’ve got to be getting back,” she said. She met his gaze and saw the dismay in his eyes. He saw the determination in hers. “And I want to call the judge before it gets too late.”

QAZI NAJEEB HUNG UP THE PHONE AND RUBBED THE CURL OF HIS ear between two fingers.

“Who was that?” his wife called from the next room.

He didn’t notice, his ear still buzzing from his conversation with Mullah Habibullah.

“Was it Shazia? Did she say if they’re going to Kabul for the holidays?”

He felt the dull ache of acid rising in his chest and wasn’t sure if he should blame his wife’s qorma or the news he’d just received from his friend. He marveled at how little he’d known of this man, even after all these years, accepting blindly that the mullah had moved from another province to serve the people. That was only a sliver of the truth. The judge, who was on a daily basis presented with lies and false stories, felt he should have detected the holes in this one.

But he hadn’t.

“Old man, have you gone deaf?” his wife shouted. She was standing in the doorway, an arched frame between the two rooms. She held a half-washed frying pan in one hand.

“Did you say something?”

“Did I say something?” she repeated in disbelief.

“Okay, it’s clear you did. What was it?”

“I asked if your sister called.”

Qazi Najeeb shook his head.

“Then call her and ask her if they’re going to Kabul for the holidays. I want to ask her to pick up some fabric for me.”

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he mumbled. “Is there any tea left in the pot?”

“No. I’ll put some water to boil,” his wife said, turning to go back into the kitchen. She paused just before she disappeared completely. “Have you thought about closing your eyes for a few minutes? You look exhausted.”

Qazi Najeeb nodded. She was a good wife, he admitted, even if she did strip him of all his airs the moment he walked through the door. She had the decency to do it only when they were alone and often reminded him that she saw it as her duty to do so. The rest of the world bows their heads to you, dear judge. It’s my job to remind you you’re just a man.

“I’m going to walk for a few minutes. My legs feel stiff.”

“Those knees of yours are getting worse. I’m going to steep some herbs and ginger for them.”

As the judge bent one knee and pushed himself to standing, he considered the way he’d thought of Gulnaz. Those eyes of hers, that pair of emeralds had entranced him, made him regret that he’d not courted her with more gusto in his youth. Would his body have ached the way it did if he’d spent a lifetime with her? Or would she have driven him away the way she had the mullah?

“When are you going to be declaring the verdict for that case?” she called from out of view.

“Tomorrow.” He straightened his tunic, scowling to see two splotches of red grease on his shirt from lunch.

“Thursday? Just before the weekend? Really, are you so callous that you would announce a death sentence on the eve of our day of prayer?”

“Is there a better day of the week to be sentenced to death?” he asked facetiously. Najeeb heard the low whistle of the teakettle.

“You know what I mean.”

“Look, I’ve already got two lawyers pestering me with this case. I don’t need a third one at home.”

“Can you imagine me working as a lawyer?” His wife laughed. She had reached only the fourth grade before being pulled out to tend to her younger siblings. And though she was literate, she’d never contemplated working outside the home, nor had any of the women in her family. It was not an idea the qazi would have ever entertained even if she had.

Qazi Najeeb’s thoughts flitted back to Zeba. She might very well be the mullah’s daughter, but as far as he could tell, there was no question that she’d killed her husband.

He stood and made his way through the front door and into the courtyard. He inhaled deeply, the sweet fragrance of his wife’s dill plants restoring him. He paused to touch the yellow umbrella flowers and dragged his fingers through the feathery leaves.

Habibullah had sounded embarrassed on the phone, though more so because he’d lied about his background than because he’d left his wife and children. Najeeb wanted to do his friend a favor, but he felt genuinely torn. He’d wanted so badly to make this case a landmark one. He’d envisioned himself as a pioneer, a man who would be remembered for ushering in a new age of Afghan jurisprudence. It was not crazy to imagine that he might be sought out for a position on an appellate court or perhaps even the Supreme Court, forever tying his own legacy to that of Afghanistan.

Zeba’s four children probably grieved their father. They deserved to see justice, he reasoned, even if Habibullah saw it differently.

He was a terrible man, his old friend had said at last, a man who didn’t deserve the wife and children he had. Zeba’s a good woman. She’s devout and pure in her heart. Her husband is responsible for this mess, not her.

My friend, Najeeb had replied somberly, I understand this is disappointing for you as a father. But how could she not be responsible? And I have to wonder how well you could know her anyway. I know she’s your daughter, but you haven’t seen her in decades. Think of how different every one of us is compared to how we were thirty years ago.