“Really?” Zeba exclaimed. For a family to give up their claim on a girl was unusual, even if the government had outlawed the practice of baad, giving daughters to resolve disputes between families, in 2009. “That’s wonderful news!”
“I’m not going to live another twenty-seven years, anyway. They’ll never get that much time out of me. It’s more important that my daughter’s life not become a prison. She’s the one with that many more years in her, God willing.”
The other women nodded and chirped in agreement.
“And we wanted to thank you, too.” It was the sister-wives, the two women imprisoned for the murder of their husband though he’d actually been killed by his cousins. The younger woman spoke first, her voice as sweet as cream. She looked at the first wife who sat beside her, grinning. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”
“Go on. You tell her.”
“Well,” she said, smiling surreptitiously. “While you were gone we found out that one of the men who murdered our husband was killed.”
“Killed? By whom?” Latifa asked. She loomed over the circle of women sitting on the floor, more attentive than any prison guard.
“The cousins who came after our husband turned on each other. They started fighting about the land among themselves, and one shot his cousin in the chest. The family is in shambles. They’re all about ready to kill each other now, and we’re the only ones in prison. We are safe here. It’s almost funny.”
“It’s not funny at all, actually,” the older wife said with a chastising look. “But let them kill each other. Leaves us with fewer enemies out there. In the meantime, we’re probably in the best place we could be.”
The younger wife nodded.
“You bet,” Latifa interjected. “I’m sure someone from the family would be ready to snatch both you widows up as wives since your husband is gone. That’s what happened to my aunt.”
“You’re right,” the older wife said, her face grim. “There was talk about that even during our trials. Better to stay here if that’s the option.”
“Will you tell us what you did, Zeba-jan?” the younger wife asked. She was kneeling, her hands on her thighs and her head tilted. “What kind of curse did you put on them?”
Zeba was stunned. She remembered the day these prisoners had laid their problems at her feet. She’d had no answers for them. She’d managed only to say that she would think on their situations and she had — at the shrine. She’d prayed for each of these women, though only in vague terms, distilling her request to Allah down to one simple word. Mercy.
“I. . I cannot say what I did. I prayed and thought about you all.” Zeba stumbled over an explanation.
“But what did you use for the spell? Fire? A chicken bone? I’m so curious!”
Latifa sensed Zeba’s hesitation and filled the silence with her booming voice.
“She can’t tell you, of course! This is dangerous stuff she deals with, don’t you see? Lethal stuff.” Latifa’s voice was a hoarse whisper as she leaned in for the last words. From where they sat on the floor, she appeared larger than life. “What Malika Zeba does is not a game. It is not for everyone. It stays in her capable hands.”
The women exchanged glances, Latifa’s words sinking in. The young wife bit her cheek in regret, and Latifa returned to her bed to observe from a distance. Zeba struggled to maintain her composure.
“I don’t need to know what you did,” declared Wahida. “I’m just thankful you did it.”
“Yes, this is a good one.” Latifa chuckled. She was happier now that order had been restored in the cell. “Tell Zeba what happened in your case.”
Zeba looked at Wahida, a young woman who looked much more polished than any of the others at Chil Mahtab. She had finished high school and she had one brother living in Iran who sent her gifts. She sidled up next to Zeba and put a hand on her knee.
“It is a good thing. Latifa-jan is right. The boy I’d run off with begged his family to allow us to marry, but it wasn’t until Zeba came along that they finally agreed. At last, we’re going to be together!”
“Lucky girl! Are they planning a wedding for you?” the older sister-wife asked, leaning backward to see past the younger sister-wife.
“No,” Wahida answered wistfully. “But they’ve pooled some money together to get us both freed. Just a few more days, they tell me.”
Latifa clapped her hands together.
“It’s just incredible. I’ve been here for years,” she said with a moan. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never seen so many women getting a break. Malika Zeba is a miracle maker!”
“Don’t say that,” Zeba said sharply. “I’m not a miracle worker at all. I prayed for you all while I was at the shrine. I didn’t do. . I mean, you shouldn’t think of me as. . some kind of miracle maker. I’m a prisoner just like you.”
“Not a chance. No other prisoner has been able to do what you’ve done. I’ve been here long enough to know that.”
“She’s right,” the older sister-wife confirmed. “And if you ever need anything, we are here for you. The women have been gathering in the beauty salon, in the classroom, in the prison yard. Everywhere the chatter is about what you’ve done to help us. For the first time in a long time, we feel like something can be done. You’ve lit this place like a full moon!”
“And the children are happier, too, those poor things,” clucked Bibi Shireen. “They sense their mother’s nerves, you know.”
Zeba felt her eyes mist. She wasn’t responsible for any of this — was she?
“That’s why you’ve earned the name Malika Zeba,” Nafisa said, tweaking the volume up on the television. It was time for the singing competition again, and she did not want to miss the finals. “You’re the most famous woman in this prison. There’s even a reporter who’s been here, asking around. She heard about your case and wants to interview you. I wouldn’t be surprised to see your story make the news. Your face on the television — wouldn’t that be something!”
Zeba did not answer. Notoriety within the confines of Chil Mahtab was one thing, but Zeba was certain that the rest of the country would not view her through the same rosy lenses as her fellow prisoners.
CHAPTER 45
THE RAIN CAME DOWN IN SHEETS, DESCENDING FROM THICK, nimbus clouds that looked like unspun lambswool. Yusuf had dashed into the office moments before it started. The rain fell upon the glass windows of the office in a soothing, staccato rhythm. He would appreciate none of this later, he knew, when he plodded his way home on a muddied road. The rain was much needed though, as the town hadn’t seen a drop of precipitation in over a month. Brittle tree branches snapped as easily as peapods, and dust floated through the air without any moisture to weigh it down.
It was a welcome break from the heat, and Yusuf felt his eyes drawn to the window often, as if he’d never seen rain before.
When he heard the ringing, Yusuf reached into his jacket pocket. This time, he recognized the string of numbers on his cell phone. He took a deep breath before pressing his thumb against the talk button.
“Hello?” he said, purposefully icing his voice a bit to sound preoccupied.
“Yes, it’s Sultana again from Dawn,” she said as if he’d not abruptly cut off their last conversation. “I wanted to follow up on the conversation we had the other day regarding the case of Khanum Zeba.”
Yusuf looked at the stack of papers on his desk, thinking to himself that all his preparation for the case of Khanum Zeba was a great big pile of nothing in the end. The insanity defense had looked viable when outlined on his yellow notepad, but in reality, it had choked pretty badly. The rumors about her husband, Kamal, had won her more sympathy from the judge and prosecutor than any argument Yusuf had put forth. All he had left was the truth, the horrible truth about what Zeba had seen Kamal doing that day, but Yusuf had been instructed by his client not to mention the girl. She was afraid for the girl’s well-being and rightfully so. A child had been sexually violated, he thought, but the world would only see her as damaged goods. There would not be pity or rage for her, and even if there were, it would scarcely be enough.