“He’s better than a doctor,” Qazi Najeeb said proudly. “Doctors can’t do anything for the poor people who’ve lost their minds. They can barely fix a broken leg. He’s a mullah with a special talent for healing the insane. I met him years ago when I was living closer to my father’s home.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry. He’s the best person for this.” The judge looked quite pleased with himself, as if he’d personally solved the mystery of who had murdered Kamal.
“With all due respect, Qazi-sahib, this is not something that requires evaluation. Was she crazy? She killed her husband in their own home — of course she’s crazy! But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t guilty.” The prosecutor turned his attention to Yusuf. “And if you’re saying she’s crazy, are you saying that she did kill her husband or are you still maintaining that she didn’t?”
Yusuf took a deep breath. That was the question he had been hoping the prosecutor wouldn’t ask. The judge intervened just as he opened his mouth to try to answer.
“It’s been too long since I last spoke with my friend. I believe this is a sign that I should reach out to him. God is great, my friends. We will reach a conclusion soon. I know the victim’s family is waiting and trusting that we will make the right decision.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed the prosecutor. “What are we supposed to tell them? That the murderess might have had a temper? That some djinn had taken control of her body and turned her into a bloodthirsty husband killer?”
“We won’t tell them anything,” said the judge. “We’ll take Khanum Zeba to the shrine and have the mullah look at her. If he thinks she’s not crazy, there’s nothing more to it. She’ll be brought back to Chil Mahtab and we’ll decide on her guilt based on what we have here.”
Yusuf fanned himself with his notepad. The opinion of some shaman was not what he’d been hoping to pin his defense on.
“What about a hospital? There are mental health professionals that we can work with. With all due respect, Your Honor, there are doctors in this country to tell us what we need to know.”
“We’ve never done anything like this before, Agha-jan,” the judge explained with a hint of condescension. “The nearest hospital is nearly two days’ travel from here and is always filled to capacity. The community trusts this mullah. We’ll get his expert opinion quickly.”
Yusuf feared pressing the judge too much and losing this narrow opening. He had to bend, he realized, if he wanted Zeba to have any chance at all.
“Khanum Gulnaz, did your daughter have any mental problems as a child?”
Gulnaz rubbed her hands together. Dust had clung to her skin on the long journey from home to the qazi’s office.
She thought of all the things she could say. Zeba talked to herself as a small child. She’d once woken in the night screaming that she’d seen a djinn in her bedroom. She’d claimed to see letters in the flames that licked at an aluminum pot. She could’ve used everything Gulnaz had taught her over the years, but she chose to live without power. Even now, she would not say exactly what had happened in that courtyard. Were these not the signs of a mentally defective person?
“She was a plain and ordinary child, Your Honor,” she said mournfully. “But she is not the same now. Something terrible has happened to my daughter and I cannot imagine what it is. It’s as if her mind was poisoned.”
“I can’t believe we’re actually considering this. Tell me, what happens if she is deemed crazy?” the prosecutor asked.
Gulnaz looked at the judge and spoke before he could.
“But this is wrong. Let her go to a hospital. My father would tell you what some of those mullahs do in the name of treatment is un-Islamic.”
The judge met Gulnaz’s eyes and felt the moisture of his palms again, the tickle at the back of his neck.
“The mullah is a remarkable healer and I trust his assessment. Zeba would be in good hands.”
“And if she is crazy and he is able to heal her, then she can be tried and found guilty. Fine. You can let me know when you want to reconvene,” the prosecutor said impatiently. “Whether it’s today or next month, Zeba will be found guilty.”
Yusuf and the prosecutor stood. Gulnaz picked her handbag off the floor and brought the strap over her arm. The judge felt his face warm to watch her, as if he’d spied her slipping a dress over her bare shoulder instead.
Did a man ever grow too gray and wrinkled to have such thoughts? He was helpless.
Qazi Najeeb picked up his tasbeh and began thumbing; the beads felt cool and reassuring against his clammy palm. He would think of her later, he knew, when he met his wife’s dull eyes and ready scowl. How different his story would have been, he thought, had Gulnaz become his bride all those years ago. They would have been content as husband and wife. She, the daughter of a respected murshid and he, the ambitious son of a hardworking man. The judge uncrossed his legs and stole a glance at the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking ever forward. There was no way to go back in time.
Despite all his efforts, there wasn’t much justice in this world.
CHAPTER 30
“RAISINS, WALNUTS, ALMONDS! THE RAISINS ARE GOOD FOR YOUR diabetes, the walnuts will cure rheumatism, and the almonds will cool your wife’s temper! Pine nuts, roasted chickpeas, and dried apricots! Pine nuts so fresh you’ll be knocking on my door in the middle of the night asking for more!”
Walid’s throat felt gritty. He coughed a bit and took a sip of water from a crumpled plastic bottle he kept tucked next to the bags of walnuts. He shouted the same pitch he’d been using for years, and it no longer drew the smiles it once had. People didn’t chuckle or make conversation. It seemed everyone was too tired for any of that anymore.
Walid walked in a cloud of dust, spun into the air by the wheels of his cart and a light wind coming down from the mountains to the west. He was nearing their block for the third time today. Usually, he only passed through a street once.
“Ramadan is coming! Don’t go hungry a day before you’re supposed to!”
Two school-age boys raced by him, passing an underinflated soccer ball back and forth. Walid brought his sleeve to his nose and mouth. He’d always had bad lungs. His mother told him it was because she’d been caught in one of the worst dust storms in history while she was pregnant with him. He’d grown accustomed to feeling like he was sucking air through a straw, but today was particularly hard.
He set his cart down and placed his hands squarely on his hips. He was in front of their house. Where was the little girl? Was she in school? Was she just a few feet away from — close enough to hear him call?
Walid coughed and felt something loosen in his chest. The dust settled a bit, and he took a long breath through pursed lips.
Why had he, a wheezing street vendor, been charged to hold her secrets? He could barely feed his own family. He was a man of faults. He had gossiped and cursed. He had been short-tempered with his wife and children. He had done nothing when his sister begged him to talk to her abusive husband on her behalf. He had cheated nearly everyone in the village at one time or another, charging some more than others when he didn’t like the way they looked at him or if they hadn’t purchased anything from him in a long time. He lied about where his walnuts came from and how fresh they were. When he’d found maggots crawling between them, he’d simply plucked the intruders out and returned the lot to the cart, thinking of the many hungry bellies waiting on his return at home. He prayed and taught his children to do the same. He was not a very learned man and feared his family suffered for it. He was nothing of use.