“Ah, so you’re really calling to do me a favor!” Yusuf chuckled.
“I don’t do favors. I just report the news,” Sultana corrected. “Can you tell me about this woman’s husband? Do you have any idea why she or someone else may have wanted to kill him?”
“There are rumors, but nothing I can commit to. And again, I’m insisting on my client’s innocence. It’s unusual for a wife to kill her husband. It’s much more common the other way around.”
“Again,” Sultana said pointedly, “something an Afghan woman doesn’t need to be told.”
Yusuf felt a rising indignation in his chest. He didn’t appreciate being painted as the stereotypical Afghan man. He took a look at the blank forms on the table in front of him, picking up a notebook and using it to fan himself.
“Look, I’ve got to go. There’s nothing more I can tell you for now. Good luck with your story,” he said quickly.
“Yusuf, just one more thing to ask. Did Khanum Zeba ever—”
But Yusuf cut her off, pressing his thumb to the red button on the cell phone while her question dangled on the line.
CHAPTER 44
ZEBA’S CLOTHES, A SMALL STACK THAT BARELY USED UP ONE shelf of the metal locker in their cell, had been freshly washed and folded. The sheets of her bed were stiff with starch and neatly tucked under the corners of her mattress. There was a red silk carnation and a small prism keychain on her pillow. The prism had a red heart at its center and spread fractured light in every direction as Zeba turned it over in her palm.
She’d returned to Chil Mahtab two hours ago but was just getting to her room now. Swarmed by her fellow prisoners in the hallway, she sensed that this place had become a shrine unto itself. It unnerved her, the way the women smiled at her, the way they offered her trinkets, the way their fingertips touched her body as if she were some kind of mystic. And Asma was right. Several women had tattooed Zeba’s name on their arms or backs either because she had saved them or because they hoped that she would. Some believed that the four letters of her name inked into their skin was a talisman in itself. The anticipation of what she could do thrived and spread like vines through the stifling hallways of Chil Mahtab.
Latifa had hugged her, an awkward pressing of her thick body against Zeba’s gaunt frame.
“Oh God, you’ve wasted away to nothing! It must have been so awful. You should eat something. Nafisa, run down to the kitchen and get her some food!”
Nafisa had seen Zeba in the hallway but had patiently waited for the crowd to clear before she put her arms around her cellmate. She’d been spooked by the idea that Zeba had been deemed insane enough to be shackled to a shrine. In the cell, she’d kept her attention on the television. She was watching the news from Kabuclass="underline" a young man and woman sitting behind a long desk reporting stories of suicide bombers and cricket game results. She was about to tell Latifa to get the food herself when she took a longer look at Zeba. Her jaw snapped shut before she could protest being bossed around.
“Oh, Zeba-jan!” Nafisa exclaimed. “I’ll grab you something right away. You do look pretty terrible.”
“It’s all right, Nafisa.” Zeba motioned for her to stay where she was. “I had some food on the way here. My stomach still feels bloated from it.”
“Hmph.” Latifa smirked, eyeing Zeba’s thin frame skeptically. “You don’t look the least bit bloated to me.”
Zeba did not know what to do with herself. She wanted to stand and stretch, because for nearly three weeks she hadn’t been able to. She wanted to walk through the yard and put her legs to use again. She wanted to lie down on her mattress and sleep without worrying about scorpions or hearing the rattling of chains.
Zeba was relieved to be back in prison, a feeling that made her insides sour. She realized she did not have much to hope for. Yusuf was struggling with his defense, and although she had not meant to, Zeba had begun to think it might actually be possible to find a way out of this predicament and be returned to her children. There were moments when she considered telling Yusuf and the judge and the prosecutor the unfiltered truth of what happened on that day. She could tell them that she had not killed her husband. The truth, in its entirety, could not possibly hold her responsible.
Then again, Zeba knew that no one would believe the truth. Furthermore, she had silently and without ceremony sworn to herself that she would not hurt that little girl any more than Kamal already had. Was she forsaking her own children for a child she did not know?
Possibly. But she’d made the choice weeks ago and would not reconsider it. If she were released from prison and something more were to happen to that child, every day of freedom would be torture. One day, she would tell the girls the truth too. She did not want to hurt them either, but she needed for them to look at her as they once had.
The sooner she accepted Chil Mahtab, the sooner she could begin to survive. She had to build a new life for herself. She had to be stronger than she’d ever been before. There was nothing crazy about her, she’d realized at the shrine. Her thoughts streamed in clear lines. The only voice in her head was her own.
Her father, Mullah Habibullah, had spent hours and hours at her cell in those nineteen days. His voice, the soft rasp of it like a familiar song, soothed her. She forgave him for his many years of absence. Disappearing, she now knew, was not the worst thing a man could do to his family. And she did not want to lose him a second time.
“You’re not insane, Zeba. If there’s anything wrong with you, it’s that you have too much of your mother’s blood in your veins. Her blood is hot and vengeful. She says she believes in God, but she believes only in Gulnaz. I know her well. I loved her, too. Since you’re an adult and almost a stranger to me, I can tell you that much. I loved her once.”
Zeba had not argued with him. She’d had the same string of bitter thoughts about Gulnaz for years.
“But I told the lawyers to leave you here because once I realized who you were. . once I realized you were a part of me. . I could not tear my eyes away from you. You looked troubled. Just as troubled as the other souls who are brought to the shrine. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out if you’re crazy or if it’s the world around you that’s insane. Sometimes if you don’t lose your mind a little bit, there’s no way to survive. You’re not broken, my daughter. That’s what you have to remember.”
ZEBA’S THOUGHTS WERE INTERRUPTED BY A KNOCKING AT THE door. She saw faces she recognized. They pretended not to see her sitting on the bed and addressed Latifa. They bit their lower lips and cast sideways glances at one another.
“Malika Zeba is not sleeping, is she?”
Latifa looked to Zeba for direction.
“Come in,” Zeba said. After so many nights alone, she craved the company. “Come in, sisters.”
Their faces burst into broad smiles, and they clogged the doorway trying to get in. They sat, cross-legged, on the floor in front of Zeba with their head scarves hanging casually around their necks.
“I wanted to thank you for helping me,” began Bibi Shireen. She had been sentenced to twenty-seven years for murder after her son was killed for running off with a girl. Zeba felt embarrassed to be sitting above someone as gray haired as Bibi Shireen and slid off the bed to sit among the women on the floor. Zeba half stood and gestured for Bibi Shireen to take her seat, but the woman waved her off with a frown. “You saved my daughter. They were going to take her as a bride in vengeance. No amount of begging had changed their minds but you. . I don’t know what you did, but it’s worked. They decided they didn’t want her after all.”