The mullah’s son returned from the back room with another empty teacup.
“Have a seat,” the mullah said. Yusuf sat on the same floor cushion as the mullah, leaving a generous gap between them. The mullah’s son placed the teacup on the carpet before him. He brought over the teapot and filled it sloppily, his carelessness disappearing into the worn carpet. The boy then disappeared too, slipping into the next room and out an unseen back door.
Gulnaz had her eyes fixed on the mullah.
“I’ve interrupted your conversation,” Yusuf declared, feeling quite certain that he was sitting with both of Zeba’s parents. Though Yusuf had never been married, he’d felt the same tension when he’d visited an aunt and uncle who had stayed married only to avoid the embarrassment of divorce. He’d felt it on the phone in his last conversation with Elena. It was a special brand of anger, a brooding, an ire that existed only where there had once been love. Yusuf cleared his throat. “I came here to ask a question about something Zeba said the other day but. . well, I think my question’s been answered.”
Neither the mullah nor Gulnaz said a word.
“I don’t need to get into your family affairs or history. My concern is regarding the judge’s verdict. I am sorry to report that the judge has found your daughter guilty. But I’m not ready to give up on her.”
Gulnaz’s hands flew to her forehead.
“Guilty.” She sighed, her voice as thin and delicate as the red threads of her shawl. “Of course.”
“As I said, I’m not going to give up on her case.”
A small shift of the clouds brought a wash of sunlight into the room. Dust motes floated in the shaft of brightness that fell on Yusuf’s feet.
“You,” the mullah said, his voice spiny with resentment. “How is that you couldn’t find anything to grind up or set on fire to save your daughter? I suppose you only have tricks for an evil sister-in-law or the woman who looks at you sideways.”
Gulnaz’s splayed fingers pressed into her lap. She lifted her head and turned her narrowed eyes to her husband.
“What a thing for you to say! You, the great holy man of the shrine, you pious wretch! You with all your prayers tied to the fences and unsaved mad men — how much have you done for your daughter?”
“What a fork-tongued witch you are,” he muttered.
“I’m the woman who raised your children and put up with your family after you left! If that makes me a fork-tongued witch, so be it. But imagine what a dog you must be — the man who didn’t care to watch his children grow. You left us with nothing when rockets and bombs fell around us like rain.”
“I left you in the folds of a respected family.”
“You took me from the folds of a revered family.”
“Revered,” the mullah scoffed. “You told me yourself the tricks you helped your father play to make believers out of your poor neighbors.”
“You ungrateful bastard. If you think so little of my father, why are you so desperate to be like him? He was respected because he helped people. Unlike you, he did it in a civilized manner. He never shackled anyone or starved them.”
“What I do works. Talk to the families of the people I’ve helped heal. They’ll tell you. Or don’t. I don’t need to prove myself to you.”
“No, you don’t. You already have proven to me just what you are,” Gulnaz spat. She turned her head to the door, refusing to look at the man who’d walked out of their home a lifetime ago.
Yusuf considered leaving. They would likely not notice his departure. He couldn’t waste valuable time listening to them rehash the past. Zeba was going to be sentenced in two days, and Qazi Najeeb’s desire to follow the letter of the penal code meant he would hang Yusuf’s client without blinking an eye.
“It’s not my place to intrude,” Yusuf began cautiously. He was acutely aware of the difference in years between himself and Zeba’s parents. They were old enough to be his grandparents, old enough to be treated with deference even if they were acting like fools. But social etiquette had been cast aside when Gulnaz and the mullah had aired their history before Yusuf. “But rehashing history will not help your daughter. Her outlook is bleak. I have a few ideas, but I’ll need your help — both of you.”
The mullah slurped his tea and Gulnaz scowled, giving Yusuf a snapshot of their past.
“I would do anything to help Zeba. I told her that before she left here,” Habibullah declared, swirling the unfurled tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.
“Good. Then I’ll ask you to speak to the judge. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
The mullah nodded.
“Does he not know who you are?” Gulnaz asked. “His family is from the same village.”
“We were boys then,” Habibullah said quietly. “He’s not once recognized me, and I don’t expect him to. I’m a different man now in many ways, including in my appearance.”
“That much is true,” Gulnaz muttered. “You’ve aged badly.”
“Then speak to him,” Yusuf said quickly. “He respects you and your efforts here. He considers you an expert and a pious man. Tell him Zeba is your daughter and beg him for leniency.”
“Tell him who I am?”
“Yes. He’s got to feel an obligation to do something for you. You can’t just be speaking up for a person who’s passed through your shrine. You’ve got to give him a real reason to listen to you.”
“That’s exactly what I was telling him,” Gulnaz said quietly. “The qazi may have mercy on her if he learns that she’s your daughter. It’s Zeba’s only hope.”
The mullah scratched at his beard, his thick eyebrows drawn together and his bottom lip puffed out. He was pouting, Yusuf realized.
“What’s wrong with you?” Gulnaz snapped. She was irked that there was silence where there should have been agreement. She turned her head just fractionally to address her husband. “Is that too much to ask of you?”
“Listen.” The mullah’s voice was a low roar. “I’ll do anything I can for her. I told her I would. But that doesn’t mean I have to jump headfirst into a well. I want to know if there’s a better way.”
“A better way that doesn’t involve you, isn’t that what you mean?”
“And for you, Khanum,” Yusuf said, tracing the rim of his teacup with his index finger. Gulnaz lifted her head but did not look at him. “I need you to do what you do best. Pay the qazi a visit and ask for mercy. She’s the mother of four children. She was a good daughter. Her husband was a terrible man. Tell him all of that and, most important, remind him of your talents.”
“My talents?” Gulnaz repeated softly.
“Yes, you know what I mean. It’s not something I would normally ask, but these are unique circumstances.”
“I understand,” Gulnaz nodded. “I’ll speak with him.”
Yusuf did not doubt that she would.
“And what about you? What else are you going to do?” the mullah asked.
Yusuf looked at the door and remembered the sight of chained men in the yard by the cells. He thought of the many hours he’d spent under the green lamps of the law library and the way Zeba had steeled herself when he suggested approaching the judge with what she’d seen Kamal doing to that girl.
He was not proud of his tactics, but he’d been troubled ever since he’d learned why Zeba had done what she’d done. He thought of Sultana and the way she’d walked out on him, indignant and beautiful.
Yusuf put the teacup back on the floor and clapped both hands against his thighs before pushing himself to stand.
“As for me, I’ve got one other idea, but if it’s going to do anything for Zeba, I need to get working on it. You both have my mobile number. The sentencing is on Thursday. Call me tomorrow and let me know what’s happened.”