Yusuf wanted to return to Zeba’s neighborhood today. If he could just find a person who had actually been in their home that day when they’d all descended upon the murder scene, he might have a chance of learning something. There had to be information he could use.
Yusuf was lost in thought and barely noticed the rickety sound of uneven wheels approaching. It was the woody scent of fresh almonds that caught his attention and caused him to stop short. A three-wheeled cart had rolled up close enough to tempt him with its stock.
“Agha, wait. Let me see what you have,” he called out.
The man stopped his cart but kept his hands wrapped around the two handles, his elbows bent and tucked close to his sides. He wore a round wool hat that did little to block the sun from his face. It was only late morning, but his forehead already glistened with a light sheen of sweat.
Yusuf took a few steps toward the cart, leaning over it to inspect the stock in each of the tall, thick plastic bags that made up the load. Dried chickpeas, long green raisins, almonds, and walnuts.
“Salaam-ulaikum.” Yusuf felt the man’s eyes on him.
“Wa-alaikum,” the man replied. There was a pause before he spoke again. “These raisins are so sweet, you’ll think they’ve been sugared. You’ve not had anything like them, I promise you.”
“Very well.” Yusuf nodded. “I’ll take them and some of the almonds as well.”
The vendor flipped open a paper bag and scooped almonds into it. His tawny hands and face had been weathered by many days under the unforgiving sun. It was hard to judge his age. He looked to be in his midforties, but Yusuf had come to realize that everyone in Afghanistan looked ten to twenty years older than they actually were, and few could expect to live past sixty-five. It was as if life was in fast-forward, though it did not seem to give anyone a sense of urgency to do more in the abbreviated time he or she had. The vendor grabbed a second bag and was about to flip it open when he paused.
“Where are you from?” he asked curiously.
“I’m visiting from town,” Yusuf said, hoping to skirt the question. He could tell people where in Afghanistan he’d been born, but he knew that wasn’t what they were asking.
“What have you come here for?” The man squinted as he looked at Yusuf, whose back was to the sun. He was also a good six inches taller than the fruit vendor.
“I’ve come to ask some questions,” Yusuf said, being unnecessarily careful with his words. “I’m sure you know that a man was found dead in his home not too long ago.”
“Mm.”
“I’m trying to find out what might have happened to him. People say his wife killed him, but no one saw it happen.”
The man scratched his beard.
“They call me Walid.”
“Good to meet you, Walid-jan,” Yusuf replied. Walid was not much older than himself, he realized with a closer look. “My name is Yusuf.”
Yusuf stuck out his hand. Walid met it with his, calloused and gritty.
“You’re not a police officer,” Walid remarked. “Why are you asking questions?”
“No, I’m not a police officer. But I want to be sure we find the truth so that justice can be done.”
“The government sent you?”
“Not really. An organization. We work for justice.”
Another dodge.
“Has anyone told you what happened?”
Yusuf shook his head and frowned.
“Not yet. If you have something to share, I’d be very interested to hear it. Did you know the man who was killed or his wife?”
“I know everyone who eats almonds and raisins.”
“I’m sure you do. What did you think of him? God forgive his soul,” Yusuf added to play it fair.
“Yes, God forgive his soul,” Walid echoed, blankly. “He was a lucky man. He had a wife and children. His eldest son is a good boy — looks after the family even now that the mother is gone.”
“You’ve seen the children lately?”
Walid nodded.
“I saw them two weeks ago. They’re with their father’s family. They look well enough.”
Yusuf could pass this along to Zeba. It wasn’t much, but he was certain she would be grateful for any news about her children.
“That’s good. They’ve been through a lot, those poor children. They’re missing two parents now.”
The raisin vendor nodded and gripped the handles of his cart. He leaned in as if about to push off then thought of something else and stopped.
“What kind of truth are you looking for?” he asked.
Yusuf was surprised by the question.
“Just the truth. I want to know if she was really responsible for killing him. I want to know if she deserves the punishment that she’ll get if the judge believes she’s guilty.”
“They’ll kill her, won’t they?”
“Maybe.”
“How can you say maybe? Why wouldn’t they kill her?”
“There’s always a possibility she didn’t do it, I suppose. And even if she did do it, maybe there was a reason that we’re not aware of.”
“A reason.”
“Yes, a reason.”
“What reason do you think?”
“I think I came all this way to ask questions because I don’t have all the answers.”
A street mutt scampered past them. The sound of boys playing rose from the distance. The dog’s ears perked and he ran off in the opposite direction with the fearful look of the abused. Yusuf was getting the distinct feeling that he was not in control of the conversation.
“Of course you have questions. Everyone does. No one can imagine why a decent woman would do such a thing,” Walid said, shifting his weight on his feet.
“Exactly.”
“What did her neighbors have to say about it?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know what her neighbors are saying about it.”
“I don’t hear everything,” he admitted as if it were a personal shortcoming.
“They didn’t say much. Seems that no one wants to talk about it.”
“I’m sure you found someone to talk to. The old woman down the road from them always has something to say, even if it has nothing to do with anything.”
Yusuf felt a tickle on the back of his neck.
“You saw me yesterday.” It was a question disguised as a statement.
Walid was silent. He held Yusuf’s gaze, which was all the confirmation he needed. Yusuf opened the paper bag, peered inside, and shook it slightly to rearrange the almonds. He plucked two out and held them in his palm.
“She said Zeba was a nice woman. She seemed to think it was a shame when family matters spilled into the street.”
“Spilled into the street?”
“Yes.”
“I think the street spilled into their home, to tell you the truth,” Walid quickly replied. There was the hint of indignation in his tone.
“What do you mean by that?”
Walid took a deep breath and straightened a bag of walnuts that was threatening to topple over.
“Akh, nothing. Just that. . nothing really. But there were so many people in that home after the shouting. Everyone came running over to see what had happened.”
“Were you there that day?”
“In their home?”
“Yes. I hear lots of people rushed in. Were you one of them?”
Walid shook his head.
“I didn’t go in. My job is in the street so I stay in the street. I know my place.”
“Weren’t you curious to find out what had happened?”
Walid wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I’d heard enough.”
“Enough that you didn’t need to see it with your own eyes,” Yusuf surmised.
Walid squinted. The two men were figuring each other out.
“You don’t sound like you think she’s a killer. Your questions are different. Are you her lawyer?”