But he hadn’t.
“Old man, have you gone deaf?” his wife shouted. She was standing in the doorway, an arched frame between the two rooms. She held a half-washed frying pan in one hand.
“Did you say something?”
“Did I say something?” she repeated in disbelief.
“Okay, it’s clear you did. What was it?”
“I asked if your sister called.”
Qazi Najeeb shook his head.
“Then call her and ask her if they’re going to Kabul for the holidays. I want to ask her to pick up some fabric for me.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he mumbled. “Is there any tea left in the pot?”
“No. I’ll put some water to boil,” his wife said, turning to go back into the kitchen. She paused just before she disappeared completely. “Have you thought about closing your eyes for a few minutes? You look exhausted.”
Qazi Najeeb nodded. She was a good wife, he admitted, even if she did strip him of all his airs the moment he walked through the door. She had the decency to do it only when they were alone and often reminded him that she saw it as her duty to do so. The rest of the world bows their heads to you, dear judge. It’s my job to remind you you’re just a man.
“I’m going to walk for a few minutes. My legs feel stiff.”
“Those knees of yours are getting worse. I’m going to steep some herbs and ginger for them.”
As the judge bent one knee and pushed himself to standing, he considered the way he’d thought of Gulnaz. Those eyes of hers, that pair of emeralds had entranced him, made him regret that he’d not courted her with more gusto in his youth. Would his body have ached the way it did if he’d spent a lifetime with her? Or would she have driven him away the way she had the mullah?
“When are you going to be declaring the verdict for that case?” she called from out of view.
“Tomorrow.” He straightened his tunic, scowling to see two splotches of red grease on his shirt from lunch.
“Thursday? Just before the weekend? Really, are you so callous that you would announce a death sentence on the eve of our day of prayer?”
“Is there a better day of the week to be sentenced to death?” he asked facetiously. Najeeb heard the low whistle of the teakettle.
“You know what I mean.”
“Look, I’ve already got two lawyers pestering me with this case. I don’t need a third one at home.”
“Can you imagine me working as a lawyer?” His wife laughed. She had reached only the fourth grade before being pulled out to tend to her younger siblings. And though she was literate, she’d never contemplated working outside the home, nor had any of the women in her family. It was not an idea the qazi would have ever entertained even if she had.
Qazi Najeeb’s thoughts flitted back to Zeba. She might very well be the mullah’s daughter, but as far as he could tell, there was no question that she’d killed her husband.
He stood and made his way through the front door and into the courtyard. He inhaled deeply, the sweet fragrance of his wife’s dill plants restoring him. He paused to touch the yellow umbrella flowers and dragged his fingers through the feathery leaves.
Habibullah had sounded embarrassed on the phone, though more so because he’d lied about his background than because he’d left his wife and children. Najeeb wanted to do his friend a favor, but he felt genuinely torn. He’d wanted so badly to make this case a landmark one. He’d envisioned himself as a pioneer, a man who would be remembered for ushering in a new age of Afghan jurisprudence. It was not crazy to imagine that he might be sought out for a position on an appellate court or perhaps even the Supreme Court, forever tying his own legacy to that of Afghanistan.
Zeba’s four children probably grieved their father. They deserved to see justice, he reasoned, even if Habibullah saw it differently.
He was a terrible man, his old friend had said at last, a man who didn’t deserve the wife and children he had. Zeba’s a good woman. She’s devout and pure in her heart. Her husband is responsible for this mess, not her.
My friend, Najeeb had replied somberly, I understand this is disappointing for you as a father. But how could she not be responsible? And I have to wonder how well you could know her anyway. I know she’s your daughter, but you haven’t seen her in decades. Think of how different every one of us is compared to how we were thirty years ago.
In the end, he’d promised to take the mullah’s entreaties into consideration and do anything he could to honor his friend’s request. He swore not to breathe a word of their relationship to anyone else and he’d meant it. If this case did attract attention, Najeeb did not want too much scrutiny to land on the shrine. The mullah was truly helping people there, and the judge didn’t see any reason to drag a man of God’s good works through the mud.
Najeeb stepped into the street, pulling his tasbeh from his vest pocket. He lived on a lane of similar one-storied homes, each bordered by an outer wall that lent privacy to their inner lives. It made the road into something of a corridor, high walls on either side. Najeeb closed the metal door behind him, shuttering his sanctuary from the view of neighbors and passersby. He thought of the swarms of people who’d entered Zeba’s home that day and surrounded her, as the police report had described. How many had there been? Dozens of gawkers trespassing a family’s private life. That was what these women did not understand, Najeeb thought. All the women of Chil Mahtab had taken down their walls with their crimes, they’d pulled aside their purdah, their protective veil. Some had flaunted their relationships with men. Some had worked late hours with male colleagues. Some had left their fathers’ homes. They should have anticipated the consequences.
Najeeb had not made it to the end of his block when he stopped abruptly. He narrowed his eyes and wondered if his vision was not in worse shape than his knees. There was no mistaking her, though.
“What are you doing here?” he asked incredulously.
“Qazi-sahib,” Gulnaz said, her voice even and purposeful. “I need to speak to you.”
“How did you find me?”
“I asked people. You’re well known in this neighborhood.”
He’d stopped thumbing the beads of his tasbeh.
“What do you want?” he asked, wondering if he should turn her away without waiting for an answer. He’d already begun to suspect that he’d been too lenient on Zeba in the first few weeks of the case. He felt manipulated now, knowing that Gulnaz was the type of woman to drive a decent husband away. It gave him all the more reason to believe Zeba had begun to follow in her mother’s footsteps but then veered down an even deadlier path.
“I need to speak to you.”
“Quickly. I have things to do and you’re interrupting my evening.” He folded his arms across his chest, the beads draped over his elbow. Gulnaz took a deep breath and began the speech she’d rehearsed on her way to the judge’s home.
“Qazi-sahib, you and I are from the same village. We met as children. We lived in the shadow of the same masjid and waded through the same streams. You’ve known my family and have been welcomed into our home. I am coming to you now to ask for mercy. My daughter suffered with that man, and it is no secret what kind of man he was.”
“Because we are from the same village does not mean I should ignore a crime. It’s my duty as a judge to mete out justice.”
“We all want justice.”