“Did you approve of the match?”
“No one bothered to ask me.”
“Did you object?”
Gulnaz shot him an impatient look.
“It was much bigger than me.”
Yusuf thought of his sister. His parents had always imagined her marrying the son of their good friend, but she’d foiled their plans by falling in love with their neighbor. He was young when she was married, but he remembered the shouting, his sister slamming her door so hard it rattled the walls of their apartment. Would Yusuf have stood up for his sister if they’d insisted she follow their wishes or would her problems have been bigger than him, too?
“How did Zeba feel about the marriage? She must have been young.”
“She was seventeen and ready to live her life. She was less of a child than others her age. . probably because she’d lost her father.”
“So she was content.”
“As content as any new bride can be.” Gulnaz drifted briefly to the first weeks of her own marriage to Zeba’s father. Her new husband had showered her with gifts and gazed at her in such a way that, even in the privacy of their home, she used her head scarf to cover the flush in her cheeks. Gulnaz had begun to warm to him when the comments began. Her husband had gushed about her so often with his family that, drop by drop, he’d created a river of jealousy toward her.
“We thought Kamal was a decent man. Zeba did not complain to me, but I did not see her much. When they were first married, she lived with his family. I did not want to interfere, and Kamal kept to himself. He didn’t want anything to do with his wife’s family. He and my son, Rafi, never had much of anything to say to each other.”
“But Zeba and Kamal moved away from his family at some point. When did that happen?”
“They moved after the second child was born. Little Girl, at least that’s what they called her at the time.”
“Was there a reason they moved?”
Gulnaz shook her head.
“If there was, I don’t know it. No one knew anything about him. He couldn’t be trusted — that was all I knew.”
“What makes you say that?”
“One time Kamal brought Zeba and the children over on their way to visit one of his cousins. I’d made mushroom stew, a recipe I learned from my own mother, God rest her soul. I’d also made rice and meatballs. Rafi’s wife, Shokria, had just given birth and was in her resting period. She needed to eat well so I’d been cooking fresh food all day. Kamal sat back and didn’t touch a bite of it. He sniffed at the spread and turned up his nose. Everyone else was starving, especially the children. We begged him to try at least a little, that it wouldn’t feel right for us to eat if he didn’t join us. It was the rudest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Perhaps he had just eaten,” Yusuf agreed, not sure what the point of this story was.
Gulnaz stared off into the distance.
“Then, exactly two months later, we were invited to the wedding of Kamal’s sister. It was a summer evening, hot and dry. Kamal nodded at me and barely acknowledged Rafi. Rafi went out of his way to strike up a conversation with Kamal, as a brother-in-law should. ‘Come visit us again. We don’t see you often enough.’ Rafi is that way. He wouldn’t turn the devil away if he came knocking on our door.”
“What did Kamal say?”
“He said he wouldn’t step foot in a house that had treated him like a dog. He said we’d disrespected him by eating in front of him and offering him nothing. Before we could argue, he had shoved Zeba to get her away from us. Half his family heard what he’d said. We left. There was no reason for us to stay after that.” Gulnaz’s face betrayed no emotion.
“I don’t mean any disrespect, Khanum, but it’s a big jump to get from there to a reason for his murder.”
Gulnaz let her eyes close for a second.
“Maybe you’re right,” she agreed softly. “And maybe you’ve got a lot more investigating to do.”
CHAPTER 22
THE QAZI HAD AGREED TO SEE GULNAZ, A HIGHLY UNUSUAL turn of events, but Gulnaz had expected nothing less. The judge had shown great restraint when Yusuf made the request, careful not to let his face twitch at the mention of Safatullah’s daughter. Safatullah’s daughter — meaning the woman that young lawyer had brought into his office was Safatullah’s granddaughter. It was the murshid’s granddaughter who’d been dragged out, screaming and limp, by the guards.
Unimaginable.
Qazi Najeeb shook his head to think of what his elders would have said about such a scene, but the elders from their village were long dead.
The qazi hadn’t seen Zeba since that episode, and he was, truthfully, not anxious to summon her back.
When the guards led Gulnaz into his office, Qazi Najeeb stood instinctively. He was unaccustomed to having women ask for an audience with him, much less one like Gulnaz. She’d been a near legend in their town even as a young woman. There were rumors of her powers, too, that she could cast spells and sway minds with a mere glance. Najeeb remembered the women in his family talking about her when she was only an adolescent.
Qazi Najeeb had seen Gulnaz only once. He’d gone to the home of Safatullah with his father, who needed the murshid’s prayers for his ailing youngest son. Najeeb was intrigued by the prospect of seeing Gulnaz, the girl who made all the other girls pout with envy. It was Najeeb who had knocked on the plank door of their compound, his father’s arms heavy with warm rosewater cake, homemade cheese, and freshly picked tomatoes.
Two young boys had answered the door, unloading the gifts from his father’s arms and leading them both into the expansive courtyard, meticulously kept with fruit trees and flowering bushes. The murshid’s home was made of the same materials as every other home in town, but it was somehow different. The wooden beams looked sturdier, the plaster smoother, the glass windows more crystalline. Najeeb’s father shot him a look that told him to take heed; the aesthetics of the home were a validation of sorts. If anyone could help the ailing boy they’d left back home, it was the man who lived within these blessed walls.
Najeeb followed the young boy who led them to the murshid’s living room, a simple chamber with sitting cushions on opposite ends and an intricate burgundy carpet on the floor, octagonal elephants’ feet patterned into the weave in white and black knots. The murshid sat on a floor cushion, positioned such that, through the room’s only window, a soft beam of sunlight fell directly upon him, illuminating his face and leaving his guests in relative darkness. There were glass bowls of golden raisins, walnuts, and pine nuts on the floor — set just out of reach of the guests. Najeeb and his father greeted the murshid, bowing their heads and kissing his hand. Safatullah was gracious. He touched his hand to his own chest and kissed the top of Najeeb’s head.
Najeeb’s father made his pleas. He explained the situation at home and described his youngest son’s belly pains and fevered restlessness. The murshid listened patiently, then nodded his head and thanked them for bringing such generous gifts.
“Your tomatoes are the only ones to have survived this dry weather,” Safatullah commented. “That you’ve shared them with my family is evidence of your generous spirit.”
Najeeb and his father wondered how the murshid knew they’d brought tomatoes since they’d given the basket to the young boy at the front door, but it was a question that would go unanswered.
The murshid cleared his throat and, motioning for Najeeb and his father to join him, raised his hands in a prayer. The tenor and vibrato in his supplications was artful — his voice was calligraphy. Najeeb watched his father’s face, eyes pinched closed and forehead wrinkled in concentration. His head bobbed rhythmically from side to side, as did his body in a sway that matched the rhythm of the murshid’s prayers.