They remained in their places long after he’d left, the irresistible need to retrace their steps preventing them from leaving. Age demanded that they not leave anything unsaid.
Once upon a time, Gulnaz recalled sullenly, there had been an afternoon when she had peered into a window and felt giddy at the thought of her life tied to this man’s by an invisible silver thread. Such an idea seemed astonishing now as they sat seething in each other’s presence.
CHAPTER 50
YUSUF OPENED THE PLASTIC CONTAINER OF SAUTÉED SPINACH and rice Aneesa had brought him, the contents resembling a green-and-white yin-yang symbol. Famished, he took in the aromatic steam of the white rice, a blend of cumin and salt. She’d even brought two squares of fresh bread. Yusuf tore off a piece of bread and shaped it around a lump of spinach, pink threads of rhubarb mixed in. His cheeks were round with food when Sultana walked into the office.
Yusuf could not conceal his surprise. He stood and grabbed a napkin. Holding it over his mouth with one hand to conceal his chewing, he motioned her over. She’d seen him and nodded, making her way to his desk.
“I’m interrupting your lunch,” she said somewhat apologetically.
Yusuf hoped not to choke as he forced the food down quickly. He swiped the napkin over his lips and slid back into his chair. They were across from each other, just as they had been in the interview room of Chil Mahtab.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, snapping the top back on the container. “Are you hungry? I could offer you some but—”
“Thank you, but I ate not long ago,” Sultana said. She was wearing the same olive-colored jacket with the sleeves rolled up. A yellow-and-green head scarf hid her hair, knotted high on her head. “Don’t stop on my account, please.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t that hungry anyway,” Yusuf said, clearing his throat. There was one other lawyer in the office, but his desk was on the opposite side of the room and a half wall separated them. He’d looked up with interest to see Sultana enter and kept glancing over as he spoke on the phone. It was unusual, of course, to have a young woman visit.
“You got my message. I’m surprised to see you.”
“I’m sure you are. I could have called, but I thought it might be better to stop by.”
“I’m glad you did. Look, let me say that I’m sorry about the way our last conversation went. I didn’t mean to try to use you or manipulate you into a story.”
“But that’s what you were doing, wasn’t it?” She still had her handbag on her shoulder, and Yusuf wished she would set it down. She looked like she might walk out at any second.
“It. . it was,” he admitted. “Look, I’ve been struggling with Zeba’s case. It’s a tragedy from many angles, and as much as I’ve tried, well, the court just won’t see why she shouldn’t be hanged. The holes in the prosecutor’s case are forgiven, when they really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But do you honestly think that a man who burned a page of the Qur’an, if that’s what he did, should be killed by his wife? I don’t think you do, and that’s why I wanted to speak to you again. Maybe there’s a better angle to the story.”
Yusuf rested his elbows on the desk. It was Wednesday, about twenty-four hours from the time of the sentencing. He had yet to hear from Zeba’s parents. He’d called them both, but neither had answered the phone.
“I could tell you the whole story, but it’s an ugly one and not anything that you can print. The details can’t go public.”
“What is it?” Sultana was, of course, curious. It was her job to ask questions, and that was precisely why she’d made the trip into this office.
“I need you to promise to respect what Zeba’s kept private.”
“I promise.” Sultana slid the strap of her bag off her shoulder and let it rest on the floor. She sat back in the chair and listened as Yusuf told her about the little girl, his voice low and grim. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but did not interrupt or move from the seat. Yusuf told her about Zeba’s fears that the girl would be shamed publicly if word got out, that the village would seek out the victim and her life would be ruined once again. He didn’t have to explain Zeba’s concerns. Sultana understood them in the way any woman would because it all came down to honor.
The girl had been stripped of her honor, of her future. If the world knew, she would never live a life without shame.
It was the greatest injustice, and it made Sultana’s blood boil.
“She has four children. Zeba is all they have. If they lose her, they lose everything.”
“Are you certain about this story?” Sultana asked. She didn’t doubt it though. There was no reason to.
“I’m certain,” he said, nodding. “The way she talked about it. . it’s the truth. That’s the reason why I said what I did to you. She’s going to be sentenced tomorrow, and the judge has made it pretty clear that he wants to honor the law. I think he wants to see her hanged.”
Sultana crossed her legs and tapped a finger on her chin.
“What can be done? Even if I go to the judge with rumors about her husband, what good will that do?”
“It’s a long shot, but it’s all I have. I’ve tried everything else.” And he had, even using the mullah and Gulnaz to sway the judge toward mercy. It was a tragic shift, he realized, that he was now simply asking for mercy instead of justice or freedom.
“And you’re thinking that if I tell the judge I’m going to run a story about the dead husband, that I’m going to write about the accusations made against him about Qur’an burning, that he’ll feel pressured not to hang the woman who killed him?”
“I think it’s a possibility. . based on what I’ve seen of this judge.”
“I just don’t know.” Sultana pursed her lips and considered Yusuf carefully.
The other attorney was off the phone now and looking in their direction. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Yusuf who his visitor was. Yusuf raised a hand and looked back at his desk. He was in no mood to explain.
“Village rumors. I’ve never wanted to have anything to do with them. They’ll be the death of all of us, I swear,” Sultana whispered.
Yusuf ran his fingers through his hair. He had every reason to anticipate defeat in this case. The odds had been against him from the beginning. A dead husband, a reticent wife, no witnesses or possible suspects. She should have been hung long ago.
Sultana stood up abruptly, smoothing her jacket over the seat of her pants. She reached for her handbag.
“You’re leaving?” Yusuf said. He didn’t want her to go. If nothing else, he wanted her to stay and tell him that he’d done everything he could have done. She was the only other person who knew the truth.
“I’ve got to be getting back,” she said. She met his gaze and saw the dismay in his eyes. He saw the determination in hers. “And I want to call the judge before it gets too late.”
CHAPTER 51
QAZI NAJEEB HUNG UP THE PHONE AND RUBBED THE CURL OF HIS ear between two fingers.
“Who was that?” his wife called from the next room.
He didn’t notice, his ear still buzzing from his conversation with Mullah Habibullah.
“Was it Shazia? Did she say if they’re going to Kabul for the holidays?”
He felt the dull ache of acid rising in his chest and wasn’t sure if he should blame his wife’s qorma or the news he’d just received from his friend. He marveled at how little he’d known of this man, even after all these years, accepting blindly that the mullah had moved from another province to serve the people. That was only a sliver of the truth. The judge, who was on a daily basis presented with lies and false stories, felt he should have detected the holes in this one.