Zeba was on her knees. She was holding the startled girl’s hands in her own, turning them over and staring at the pink of her palms.
Children had such perfect hands — so soft and eager to hold on to someone who would love them. Was Rima holding her aunt’s hands? Did she try to nestle against her aunt’s bosom? And when she did, was she pulled in so she would forget Zeba or was she pushed away and left to wonder why?
A little boy came along. By the way he took the little girl’s hand from Zeba and moved close enough that their shoulders were touching, she guessed he must have been her brother though he couldn’t have been more than a year older.
“What a good brother you are! So good of you to take care of your sister. God will reward you for being such a caring brother. What is your name?”
The two children exchanged looks.
“My name is Bashir,” he answered slowly.
Zeba threw her head back and laughed. She wiped her tears away and leaned in to share her story.
“My son’s name is Basir! Did you know that? He’s older than you. He’s such a good boy, too. When he was your age, he used to take care of his little sisters. Your mother must love you both very much. You should never leave her, understand me? No matter what people say about her, you should never believe it. Even if they call her a whore or a liar or a murderer or a. .”
The two children were looking past Zeba at the warden and Yusuf. They stood behind her, listening to her wild rant.
Zeba didn’t hear them calling her name.
“People don’t know. They say terrible things, but they don’t really know what’s happened.”
The children took one step backward, then two.
“Are you afraid of me? Please, please don’t be afraid of me! I’m nothing to be scared of! I’m so sorry. I only wanted to talk to you!”
There were hands on her elbows, bringing her to her feet.
“Why are you running from me!” she shrieked. “I’m not the person you should be running from! I promise I am not that person!”
There were shouts, calls for guards to help, more hands on her even as she kicked. Her head scarf fell to the floor.
“Let me go! Let me go! I didn’t kill him!”
Latifa loomed over her.
“Shut up, Zeba! You’re scaring these children! Look what you’ve done!”
But Zeba hadn’t done anything. Why couldn’t anyone see that? Why did everyone continue to blame her?
“Zeba,” Yusuf said. Asma and another guard were holding Zeba up by the elbows. Her knees were bent, and she was writhing in their grasp. “Control yourself!”
Latifa grabbed Zeba’s face with her hands — thick, manly hands that made Zeba’s feet kick out, striking Latifa in the shin. Latifa let go and scowled sharply.
Zeba’s head ached. She felt the urge to slam her skull against the wall and release the poison. Human skulls are nothing more than eggshells anyway, she thought. And even a child can crack eggs.
“Get your hands off me! You brought that filth into our home. I could smell it and taste it and feel it and you told me it was nothing! I should have killed you long ago!”
“Khanum Zeba, please, stop screaming. .”
“Take her to the interview room and watch over her until she calms down. She’s not going to get away with acting like this in my prison,” the director said, her arms folded across her chest. Her words cut through the shouts and made Zeba go still. Her legs straightened, and she was standing on her own.
“This is not prison. Prison is out there,” said Zeba in a throaty, singsong voice. “I’m no one’s slave. I’m no one’s prisoner. God as my witness, I’m unshackled!”
“Not for long, I’m sure. My God, Zeba. You’re as crazy as we always thought you were,” Latifa shouted from far enough away that Zeba’s foot couldn’t reach her.
Yusuf watched carefully as his client was led down the hallway, her back now straight with a dignity that only an insane person could feel. Maybe Latifa was right, he thought.
Maybe, just maybe, Zeba was as crazy as she seemed to be.
CHAPTER 26
YUSUF STOOD WITH CHIEF HAKIMI AT THE DOOR TO ZEBA’S home. Hakimi pushed the door in.
“This is the scene of the crime,” he announced dramatically. “I gathered what evidence I could. It was obvious she had killed her husband.”
They stepped into the courtyard. The absence of life hit Yusuf harder than the shadow of death. This had been a home, and the ghosts of its inhabitants seemed to be present. Yusuf could almost hear the echoes of an everyday existence in the courtyard: the scrape of a spatula against an aluminum pot, the pungent smell of seared garlic and onions, the soft giggles of sisters sharing secrets, the hum of a mother with her children at her feet.
They were gone.
“Where was Khanum Zeba when you got here?”
“Right there,” Hakimi said, pointing to the front wall of the house. “She was sitting on the ground, and all the neighbors had gathered around her. Her children — they were shaken up. She was a bad sight. The blood on her hands was already dry. The baby was crying. I don’t know how long she’d been sitting like that. She wasn’t saying much.”
Thank goodness for that, Yusuf thought.
“People were very upset. They didn’t know what to think. Nothing like this should have happened in our town. The women couldn’t believe she would have done such a thing, but it happens.”
“What happens?” Yusuf said without turning to the police chief. He sensed that looking this man in the eye made him uncomfortable, and he wanted to hear Hakimi’s unfiltered thoughts.
“Women lose their minds. Maybe he did something to make her that way. I don’t know. I didn’t know either of them very well, but I know the rest of his family. This has been very hard on them.”
“So you think Khanum Zeba flew into a rage and killed her husband?”
“Yes, that’s. . well, then why else would I arrest her?” Hakimi replied defensively.
“Of course. Anyone in your shoes would have done the same,” Yusuf reassured. He kept his tone casual and friendly. “As you described it, there was no obvious reason to think Khanum Zeba hadn’t been the one to kill her husband. But let me ask you this. While you were here with the neighbors and friends, did anyone come forward to say they’d heard any shouting or that they’d seen anything unusual that day? Maybe someone else entering or leaving the home? I’m not saying you did the wrong thing, but I’m just curious if there were any other sides to the story that need to be investigated.”
But Hakimi’s shoulders stiffened.
“I don’t need you to tell me I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing. I’m the police chief here. What you need to be asking is what your darling Khanum Zeba did — not what I did! Where are you from, anyway?”
It was Yusuf’s turn to tense.
“I am not questioning you. This is a misunderstanding. I’m only trying to make sure I know the full story so that I can do my job and provide Khanum Zeba with a reasonable defense.”
“Do what you need to do then. I will wait here for you to finish,” Hakimi huffed and turned to take a seat in an upturned plastic chair in the courtyard. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll be watching.”
“Of course. I’ll just be a few moments.”
Yusuf took a deep breath. How had this conversation gone so wrong? He’d meant to befriend Hakimi, to make him an ally. He strolled through the house. There was nothing unusual about it. There was the usual sparse kitchen area with a few items spread out, as if someone would walk in any moment and pick up where they’d left off. The rooms were small and simple with floor cushions and a single wooden-armed sofa. A thermos sat on the living room floor next to a glass teacup stained with a series of brown rings. There was a brown-and-yellow tapestry nailed to the wall, a geometric print that echoed the pattern of the carpet. He walked through the back door and into the yard behind the house. He recognized the layout from what Rafi had described to him and from the police report. The outhouse was right where he expected it to be, as was the pear tree. The solitary rosebush sat off to the side, almost as if it were retreating from the home.